Dwindling Pieces
by serinamalfoy
Summary: After a ten year separation, in which he and the Wizarding world have done their best to heal and move on from the lost Boy Who Lived, Draco Malfoy is faced with an unexpected reunion that threatens to destroy his sense of reality. Warnings: Slash
1. Disintegration: Part 1

AN: All of Disintegration has been re-edited! Also, Disintegration and Lassitude have been broken up into chapters, as well as the new and last story that concludes Dwindling Pieces. Please enjoy!

It was a cool hand that awoke me this morning, that brought me out of my drowsy slumber. It was a smooth hand that pushed back my hair and lush lips that whispered the morning's greetings into my skin. It was a reminder of where my life is at this point, an offer of happiness given to me by the person who loves me.

But the silk voice that tells me _"I'm yours"_ shatters any hope of this morning being a part of the life I desire. The voice does not belong to the person _I_ love. You never told me that you were mine – no, I was yours and yours alone.

As I opened my eyes, finally startled out of my sleep, light brown hair and even lighter brown eyes invaded my vision, and it took all my might to keep from closing my eyes in disgust. I forced myself to look up and offer the woman sitting on my bed a fraction of a smile, afraid that if I extended it any farther that it would become a grimace. She beamed down at me, reminding me that breakfast would be served in half an hour, and that she was leaving afterward to take our daughter out.

I was tempted to correct her, to remind her that it is _her_ daughter, and not mine. No daughter of mine would have brown eyes; grey like mine, yes; green like yours, yes. But not brown, like hers.

I sat up, allowing the sheets to pool around me, and looked out the window, glaring against the bright morning rays. The weather this morning was completely contradictory to my mood, and I slid grudgingly out of bed and made my way to the washroom.

My wife, for she prefers that I call her so, always complained about my bathroom; she says it reminds her of a Quidditch changing room, complete with several unnecessary shower stalls. She doesn't see the need for multiple sinks and cracked mirrors that are too small to be of any use. She doesn't understand the significance of the whole setting, with lockers in a corner and benches all about the place. She's a fool for not realizing that it _is_ a Quidditch changing room; that it is an exact replica of the changing rooms back at Hogwarts. But then again, she never did attend Hogwarts.

As I stood in the second stall, letting the water beat down on me, I was reminded of our last moments together. We had stood there, hidden in the showers of the Slytherin changing rooms. You had come to me in the dead of night after I had finished flying. You reminded me that I was yours, filling me with your intoxicating desire.

I cannot believe I allowed myself to live through the torture of remembering the way you caressed me as I stood in the shower this morning. The cold tiles against my back and the warm water smothering my face were reminiscent of every touch; every bead of water was your finger tracing my back, feeling every inch of me.

But then her voice pierced my silent torture and echoed throughout the room, and she called me down to breakfast.


	2. Disintegration: Part 2

The sun was high over head when my wife and her daughter arrived back at the Manor, the clouds stirring and dimming the atmosphere. I sat in the dining hall, slowly eating the food the house elves had provided, ignoring the piles of paperwork that sat on the table next to me. I had notified the office yesterday that I would not come in during the weekend to work, but they had insisted on owling me the work that needed my immediate attention. Lawsuits, letters from my clients, inane amounts of files sent by the research department; all were muddled up in my head, and I occasionally took the time to glare at them as I ate.

Footsteps approached, the clicking muffled on the Persian rug lying decoratively on the stone floor, and I was suddenly confronted with brown hair flying in my face and a cool kiss on my cheek. I mentally choked as my wife sat in the chair beside me.

"Good afternoon, Darling."

I nodded, taking the newspaper in her hands. "Afternoon, Wilone."

She smiled softly as I opened up the day's copy of the Daily Prophet. Wilone knew not to disturb me as I read, past experiences of her interruptions still evident in her controlled posture, ready to flee if needed. I scanned the leaves of paper, looking for a name. I skimmed every word of every article, relieved that I couldn't find it. But just as I was about to fold the papers over in triumph, I looked down one last time and saw it. In the corner of the last page, in small print, they dared type your name. I snarled, relief draining and replaced with scorn, and I chucked the paper at the wall.

Even after ten years, they couldn't stand to leave you alone.

Wilone stood up, her dress fluid as she made her way to my chair, placing a hand on my shoulder. I was momentarily surprised that she did not escape to her own place. She must have thought it was comforting, the knowledge that she was there for me. I wanted to shrug her hand off, the heat from the contact like ants invading my skin, the itch nearly unbearable. I wanted to reach up and scratch it, claw at the skin that she contaminated.

After several long, agonizing moments, Wilone had claimed she heard her daughter cry, and I did not stop her from leaving me. But as she walked out of the dining hall, she stopped to pick up the newspaper, setting it lightly on the corner of the table, far away from my reach, but not far enough from my gaze.

I leaned back in my chair, my eyes trained on the paper. It marveled me how the Ministry still mentioned you, ten years after the Dark Lord's defeat. Their hero, you had never failed to be mentioned – you were first on the front page, probably for months, with the news, the excitement and the mystery all entangled in articles that appeared every day. But as the news got old people wanted to hear of newer events, and the editors moved your story to the second page. Then the third, the fourth, the fifth, up until the articles on you dwindled and disappeared. But they never forgot you, and they had to let the public sit and endure their insanity as well – they would always, always name you at least once.

I have wanted to see you fade away – I wake up every morning to make sure you aren't mentioned. But you are, and every day I live in agony, wishing I could eradicate your existence from my life. But every night I fall asleep dreaming of you, and awake every morning thinking of your memory.

For ten years, you've been plaguing my life with your disappearance. I have searched for you everyday since we left Hogwarts, after you ended the war. You left me and I looked for you. I have always thought it was ironic that it was I who was looking for you, when it should have been the other way around. 

What kind of owner were you, to have left me hanging?

I have never found you, and after several years, I could no longer think that you were even alive. Your friends hadn't heard from you, and even they had given up on finding you. They claimed that if you wanted to be found, you would be. But that hadn't stopped me, or the Ministry. Nevertheless, we failed to locate you. As the years rolled by, we all simply gave up, though some were content to live with your memory, and constantly reminded the rest of us of that. I had to move on because I couldn't stand being alone, not after being with you.

I sat and stared at nothing in the dining hall this morning, questioning my past choices and decisions. Why had I married Wilone? Was it simply to fill a void that I knew would never be properly replaced? Maybe you would be here at the Manor and not her if you had never disappeared.

But was my life all that bad now?

It confuses me; I had everything I wanted, from an excellent career to a loving wife. Though I didn't necessarily love her back, nor care for her daughter, they still were a part of my life that I thought I could live with. They were routine, and I hated it when routine was broken.

The summons from a house elf startled me out of my thoughts, and I grudgingly made my way to the foyer. It took all my strength to not sneer at the people I found waiting for me there.

Weasley, his towering height included, turned to me as I had entered. His side-kick, Hermione, stood next to him, her arm linked with his. I mentally gagged. It sickens me to see the two of them together. Hermione I can live with in my presence, as I work with her almost daily, but Weasley is the same stubborn, lowly being I have always known him to be.

He had not looked pleased himself as Hermione detached herself from him and had come up to hug me. Though the gesture had caught me off guard, I did not back away. The sight of disgust on Weasley's face made the embrace far more worth the trouble, though I had to remind myself that I didn't mind her anymore.

"Darling, who are these people?"

I groaned inwardly, turning to see my wife standing on the stairs. Wilone's eyes were narrowed dangerously as she took in the sight of Hermione and I embracing. Her disgust nearly matched Weasley's, and I disentangled myself quickly.

"Wilone, this is Hermione Granger, head of the research department at the firm." Wilone nodded curtly, eyeing Hermione's state of casual attire in distaste.

A muffled cough reminded me of the other presence in the room.

"Oh, and this is Ronald Weasley; former peer at Hogwarts and husband to Hermione."

Wilone did not take notice of Weasley's presence. If I have done anything right in my lifetime, it was to have trained that woman well. She knows high class and plebian status by the sheer smell of it.

"What, may I ask, are you doing here, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione glanced scathingly at Wilone, and I had to quirk an eyebrow. Hermione has never been one to be hostile, but it was evident that she did not approve of Wilone. It may have been because she had already met Wilone once, but my wife obviously did not remember her. I coughed slightly, drawing her attention back to me.

"Hermione, what _are_ you doing here? You can't possibly want back the files you sent me this morning; you would have had me owl them to you."

Hermione glanced back at Weasley. He was rudely ignoring both my wife and myself, and I didn't know if I should have been glad at his disapproval of Wilone, or insulted that he dared pretend I wasn't there. He nodded to Hermione, and swiftly made his way toward the doors, letting himself out.

I could hear my wife stop breathing as Hermione stepped closer, her head bowed. She whispered to me, but I could not hear, and had to tilt her face upward to mine. I acted as indifferent as I could when saw her eyes fill with tears as she repeated what she had said. Her voice was unsteady, shaking with over-whelming emotion. I dropped my hand from her face, and had backed away from her, disbelieving. With her head lowered, she nodded and told me again.

Everything that had ever happened to me would never have prepared me for that moment in my life. It was breaking routine, a routine I have tried to hold together alone for nearly ten years.

You were found, and they wanted me to come and see you.


	3. Disintegration: Part 3

This morning seems so far away as I stand here now, behind a glass wall. The atmosphere is bright, the artificial light blinding me as my eyes try to adjust. I close them to keep from hurting, much like how I've closed myself off most of my life, to keep from getting hurt.

But that didn't stop you.

You once told me, as we sat in the sun by the lake at Hogwarts, that people are fickle. You told me that what people want is only what they want until it's theirs.

I had asked you if you were like other people. I asked you if you wanted me and if you would no longer want me once you had me.

You turned to me then and grinned, a mischievous sort of smile playing at the corners of your lips.

"But Malfoy," you said, as your hand took hold of my chin, your eyes leveled with mine, "I already have you. And I don't want you, I _need_ you."

But as this artificial light confronts me now, its lack of life twisted in with the illumination it gives, I'm reminded of how you hurt me, how you left me. And after all these years, despite my desires, my dreams, I may be as fickle as the people around me.

Because if I want you, want you to be the one that makes me happy, why does the sight of you disgust me?

I glance over at your friends that are here, all that have come to see you in your state. Why any one would want to see a half crazed lunatic is unknown to me, but being your friends, it doesn't surprise me that they're here. They probably came to reassure you and make you feel like you have returned home. The gesture is pointless, though, seeing as you are unable to understand any of us. You simply see through us, and instead see a world we can never comprehend.

I see a large basket filled with what are undoubtedly cakes and pies, carried by Weasley's mother. I roll my eyes; they're only here to reassure themselves, because none of them want to believe what they've been told.

I scan the rest of the crowd, and I am not surprised to see Weasley, biting down on his fingers. He occasionally turns to glance at his sister who is pale with shock, her small hand covering her mouth. It doesn't amaze me that she's mortified by your appearance, because any sane person would be. Hermione stands next to me, chewing on her lip the way she has for years. She hasn't changed in the past ten years; her hair is still frizzy, she's still not extremely attractive, though having worked with her for several years I can appreciate her finer points. That look says one thing; she's contemplating the universe. But as I turn to look at you again, an unknowing specimen locked behind a glass wall, I cannot understand why she dares contemplate anything. The simple truth is hard enough to bare.

Hermione looks over at me as I glance at her again, and I know she's aware of my gaze. She offers me a ghost of a smile, and turns back to face the glass.

"Draco," I hear her whisper, "We can't let him stay here."

I nod, unable to move any other part of my anatomy. I follow her gaze to look at you, and my throat constricts. What was once a hero is now a skeleton of a man, weathered in all ways, frail and broken. You mumble to yourself, your voice low and barely audible. You hang your head, and we all wait for you to look up, to prove to us with your eyes and your face that you are real. My stomach knots and sinks as I watch you scratch yourself, for your fingernails are black and caked with dirt. Your hair is long and matted, falling stiffly about you, and I shudder uncontrollably as I watch something crawl out of it and down your arm. I feel nauseated and I have to turn, step away in order to regain my balance.

I don't dare look back at you. But then the Weasley girl screams and Hermione grabs my shoulder, and I look up. It's her turn to become deathly pale, and I hand her over to Weasley as I make my way back to the front, pressing my hand to the glass. But as soon as I've made it there, I want to be as far away as humanly possible.

Your eyes are hollow, a green so dark it cannot exist. They're lost, searching the room, and then looking at me, as if you know I am here. But you shouldn't because the glass is a one way mirror, yet still you look in my direction. I gasp as I study your face, realizing it is you, and that there is no room left for doubt. Those are your eyes, no matter how dulled they are, and it's your nose, your jaw, the angle of your cheek bones, the stretched, sallow skin; constructing the face we all once knew.

Even on your forehead, if I squint and imagine hard enough, is the faint outline of what was once your lightning bolt scar. It's hard to make out, seeing as how there are so many more covering what was once beautiful skin.

I chastise myself for thinking that.

The doctors come in, their white robes as white as the light over head, followed closely by the Ministry officials with their stern faces. Everyone seats themselves, except for me, and I lean against the glass as they address us. The doctors tell us that there is no doubt that the person in the other room is you, and I snort; we already knew that. They continue, informing us that you must be kept here, for the sake of not only your safety, but ours as well. A general uproar of arguing voices commences, but I stand back and watch, thoughts reeling through my head.

Hermione looks over at me and I know she's devising her own plans. She stands up, making her way over to me as quickly as she can. She grabs my arm and faces me as she steps forward to whisper hastily in my ear.

"Draco, only you can get Harry out of here. You're the only one with enough ties to get him out without the uproar and complications." Hermione takes a quick breath, her face flush as she glances over her shoulder at Weasley, who begins walking over. I scowl at him as Hermione continues.

"You're the only one with enough resources to take care of him, Draco. He'll need medical attention; he'll need to be constantly watched. Please, do this for him, otherwise none of us will be able to see him ever again." She steps back as Weasley grabs her arm, pulling her away from me. I scrutinize her and her words. But as she looks up at me hopefully, I turn my head away, closing my eyes. I feel her hover, and then turn away, following Weasley's guidance back to her seat.

I ask myself if this is what I want. I wanted peace, and for so long I had it in my grasp. But your constant memory, locked in the back of my head, has never let me experience that peace. Now, as you sit behind me in a room you may never leave, I don't know if I want you with me.

"What would I lose?" I murmur to myself, opening my eyes to find Hermione watching me. "What part of my new life would I lose in order to restore what I haven't had for so long?" I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "I'd lose routine, that's for sure."

Hermione must have read my lip movement, as minute as it had been. Her eyes grow sorrowful, and her shoulders slump from their proud posture as she looks away. I in turn look away, spinning back around to look at you through the glass.

Your head is bowed again, but as my gaze settles on you, you start, your head snapping up. Your eyes meet mine and for a second I'm being pulled in, the hollowness in your stare sucking me dry. The tug in my chest is undeniable, and a prickling feeling that is tormenting the back of my eyes causes me to tear my gaze from you. I shudder as I realize that my arms hurt, that I feel weak and my knees are about to give in. I want to slide down the wall now and curl up on the floor, taking my thoughts with me, burying myself and resist the restraints the world has on me.

I want to hold you and make it all go away. But I can't give in to foolish desires. It's amazing how you've always had this sort of effect on me, and even in your schizophrenic madness, your unhealthy appearance and psyche, you still do.

I step forward, still resisting the urge to fall to the ground, and I wait for the room to fall quiet. As everyone turns to look toward me, I straighten. There's no doubt by the look in Hermione's eyes, her posture proud again, that I've become the image of arrogance she's used to, commanding everyone's attention.

"I will provide the money needed for the medical expenses and such for Potter," I say defiantly, getting straight to the point as I look pointedly at your friends gathered here, "On the condition that he returns with me to the Manor."

I leave no room for argument as I back up, waiting for their reactions.

There are several gasps, exclamations of surprise, and Weasley starts forward, pointing a finger bitten down by anxiety at me. Hermione grabs his arm, forcing him into her chair as she takes his place to approach me. His eyes narrow in suspicion, but Hermione offers me a grateful smile, touching my arm in passing as she turns to question the doctors. Both she and I know that the officials are aware that we are able to convince anyone of letting you go with me; we've been known to take matters into our own hands when times have called for it.

It comes as no surprise when the Ministry officials look to one another and hesitantly nod their consent. In turn, your friends glance at each other and give their silent permission, though Weasley is the last of all to do so. I hear Hermione sigh in relief, stepping back to lean her head on the glass wall. I turn back around to speak with her, but bite my lip and muffle a cry of surprise instead. Hermione searches my face and then turns to face the mirror she has been up against. Her hand shoots up to her mouth in fright, and she bites her knuckle as she backs away. 

From where you were sitting, a spot five meters away, you've suddenly appeared in front of the mirror. Your grimy forehead is pressed up against the one-way-mirror, and your hollow eyes bore through what should be your reflection into my eyes. Your lips move but no sound is made. That tugging comes back, and I feel myself start to lean forward, the sight of you having a magnetic effect on my body.

But Hermione begins to grasp my arm, pulling me away from the glass, and your mumbling grows rapid now as your lips move faster. You start shaking your head, your fist coming up to pound on the mirror that is your barrier. Your eyes; they're wide and they flicker with recognition. The dark green hue floods away and a more familiar emerald bleeds in.

You _see_ me.


	4. Disintegration: Part 4

I wonder, as I watch you thrash wildly against the restraints, if this is what I wanted in finding you again. There are innumerable amounts of doctors, observers, nurses streaming through the Manor day in and day out, recording your behavior, your heart rate, a million and one things that shouldn't matter. I've decided that I'll kick them all out today or press serious charges against the Ministry for not allowing any of us our privacy. My wife's daughter wails when she sees the men in white robes pass, and I cannot do anything but grit my teeth as Wilone tries in vain to quiet the girl.

The doctors tighten the last of the restraints on the bed, and you lie still as I approach. I dismiss the doctors, and I can tell they already knew they aren't wanted here. They scurry out of the room, taking equipment with them as I lean down towards you.

"You should know," I say slowly, "that this is the time you take to sleep. After three weeks, Potter, you should recognize your 'nap time' when it rolls around."

I don't know what I'm trying to achieve by talking to you. Something about you being here makes me feel like my old self, the arrogant brat from Hogwarts. I feel threatened by you, although I know I shouldn't.

Your eyes roam over me, up and down my body, but then you look away, distant, mumbling things that are unintelligible. I'm only grateful that your appearance has improved; your hair is cut, and I've bought you new clothes. I'm also thankful that it was not I who was the one to wrestle you into the water to bathe you. I've heard that you put up quite a struggle; I wouldn't know, as I had been at work at the time, trying to keep as much of my life in order as I possibly could.

But it is the weekend again, and I leave you in the room I've given you, closing the door behind me. I pause and lean against the door, and I can hear you thrashing again. I sigh and begin making my way to the drawing room. If I am correct, there is someone there for me, and I cannot keep her waiting.

I recount the past three weeks as I make my way down the stairs, thinking about my interactions with you. When I've been at home, I've constantly been called into your room. I would far prefer to be in my study, working on the cases I have to deal with, but it seems to always have been urgent that I come to you. The doctors have always required my presence, as it seems to calm you down when I'm near. I can't deny it, though I would much prefer to think of it as a coincident; you settle down when I'm there, even if you don't listen to what they tell me to say to you.

Occasionally you'll look at me, and your eyes will widen like they had the first day I saw you in the room with the glass wall. But as soon as you've seen me, you look away, and every time it puzzles me. Maybe you don't actually see me, but instead see something of the otherworld you live in. 

However, against all rational thought, I hope you feel guilty. I want you to know my life was broken when you left me, and that I think you deserve whatever happened to you. I want you to see through my gaze and know that I have been angry with you all this time.

Because, how could you tell me _"You're mine"_ and then leave me the very next day?

I slide the door to the drawing room open, unsurprised to see Hermione curled up on her favorite couch. She's biting her lip, holding a mug of what must be steamed milk, and staring at nothing.

She must be thinking about you, I tell myself. She never drinks steamed milk unless she's thinking about you. It's an odd habit she's picked up, one that started ten years ago.

I close the door gently, and I make my way over to the armchair opposite her, sliding the piles of paper work off the chair and onto the floor. I sit down, leaning my head against the back of the chair and wait for Hermione to realize I'm here. She takes a moment to shake herself out of her thoughts, but then smiles and takes a sip from her mug. She places it on the coffee table.

"I was thinking," Hermione starts, as she resumes her position against the pillows of the couch.

"About Potter." I finish, staring at her as she frowns.

"His name's Harry, Draco. No one else is here to hear you call him by his name."

"You know very well I can't call him that, Hermione. He never let me call him that when we were together."

Hermione's gaze softens, and she reaches out to grasp my arm. Had I known, years ago, that I would be 'friendly' with Hermione now, I would have hanged myself. But our work together has helped us breach my prejudice and our childhood enmity. I don't think she expected us to be friends, but she always did her best to accept and understand me, though it took me much longer to mimic her efforts.

"Do you still love him?"

My eyes widen, and I want to pull my arm away from her, but Hermione holds on insistently, her eyes searching mine. I don't respond, because I don't know what to say; I wanted you when we were together, and I remember believing that I loved you, though it may have been lust. I've dreamt about you all these years afterwards, and I remember what I felt all long ago when I'm around you now. But the anger and hurt and satisfaction in seeing you in pain are powerful and undeniable. My loathing and my pride seem to have returned to me a hundred fold, and now I don't even want to touch you, don't want to see you. You have been the cause of my pain, and you deserve what you feel now.

But even if I was sure that I love you, what would that mean for Wilone? She is my wife, and I am legally bound to her. It is evident that I despise her, though I try to treat her as best I can. I've pampered her, I've provided for her, and even though her company is not usually welcome, she has filled that void when I've needed her to. I cannot simply abandon her like you abandoned me; despite popular belief, a Malfoy does not throw his wife to the dogs. Mice, possibly, in the dungeons, but not the dogs, because there is no doubt that those Prophet hounds will be at her the second they hear of it.

I stay silent, and Hermione gives up, murmuring an apology.

"Weasley still doesn't know, does he?" I venture, unable to look her in the eye.

Hermione shakes her head, letting go of my arm and falling against the cushions again.

"I know you didn't want us to know that you and Harry had a relationship, and when I did find out, I respected your wish that Ron not know. But you know I've always felt guilty, and with Harry here now, I think Ron's beginning to be suspicious."

I snort, closing my eyes. "You mean to say that Weasley isn't as thick as I thought he was?"

I am not happy to find a pillow has been thrown at my face, and I open my eyes and glower at Hermione. She mock glares back, her hands on her hips.

"You deserved it. You know you shouldn't say such things about Ron."

I roll my eyes, and I'm about to retort when an ear-piercing scream picks up, causing both Hermione and I to look towards the door. I groan as the screaming continues, louder and more desperate, and Hermione turns to me in shock.

"Do you not care that Rene is crying?"

I shrug, shaking my head. "She's not my daughter; she's simply an annoyance."

Hermione knows me well enough to not respond, but I know she's repulsed with my lack of commitment. She's never approved of Wilone, but she has expressed to me before her views on my lack of being a proper father. 

It reminds me of something, and it amazes me that I dare bring it up now.

"Hermione," I begin tentatively, "why haven't you and Weasley tried to have children again?"

Hermione has always adored Rene, if not children in general. It still amazes me that at twenty-seven, Hermione and Weasley have yet to have a single child. Undoubtedly they have tried, but after their first failed attempt, they have never mentioned having children again. That's why I was hesitant to bring it up; Hermione was still emotional about the whole ordeal.

As I look to her, Hermione's eyes glaze over, her expression becoming distant again as she looks at some place above my head. Her body is limp against the couch, and I can see in her posture that she has become exhausted. I feel guilty for having brought the subject up, and I'm about to speak up when she responds.

"When Ron and I lost our baby at birth," she begins, her voice hoarse, "I think he was more terrified than I was. It wasn't too long afterward that I wanted to try again; I wanted a child of my own, one that he and I could raise and teach and love." She sighs wistfully before her gaze snaps back to me.

"But Ron couldn't. He said that he had lost enough in his life time, and that he didn't want to risk losing any one again. He had lost two of his brothers during the war; he had lost his father to an accident at the Ministry; he had lost Harry when the war ended, and after losing our first child, he couldn't go on.

"Ron told me, that if he were to ever try again, it'd be once he was ready. I knew what that meant, and I was afraid that that time would never come. But it has now, and I think he'll be ready to try again."

I gape, openly surprised at Weasley's selfishness and inconsideration for his wife.

"You mean," I say, trying to even out my anger, "that he wouldn't have a child with you until he had Potter back."

Hermione nods, her eyes falling to her hands, which she holds limply in her lap.

"He must have believed – no, _you_ must have believed – that Potter would come back."

Hermione takes a deep breath, her shoulders sagging.

"Did I have a choice?"

I get up and take a single stride to her couch, falling to my knees in front of her to hold her hands.

"You always have a choice; you of all people should know that, Hermione."

She smiles weakly, lifting her head a fraction to look at me.

"Even the smart, the strong and the confident people need reassurance, Draco. You of all people should know _that_."

I look away, and she sighs again.

"It doesn't mean I've not tried to trick him into making a mistake or, you know. But every attempt to sabatoge the protection always seems to fail. I guess we're just not meant to have children."

I chuckle at Hermione's daring, and I see from the corner of my eye that she's smiling too.

"Hey," she says, causing me to look up at her fully, "promise me you'll take care of Harry. You're our only hope, Draco, and you know he needs you. He always has."

I feel my brow knit in offense. "My word wasn't good once, was it?"

Hermione smiles and shakes her head. "That's why they call it reassurance."

I nod curtly and sit taller, my voice suddenly becoming more stern. "I'll take care of him, Hermione. I said I would, and Malfoy's do not go back on their word."

She tries searching my face, but I refuse to look her straight in the eye. My stomach feels knotted, like I am offended that she would doubt me. But I feel more angry at you, at what I have gotten myself into.

"It's okay to be angry, Draco," she says after a pause. I roll my eyes; I'm not a child, and I don't need her to be my mother. Her tone grows sharper, and my eyes snap toward her. "It's okay to be angry, but we don't know where Harry's been. We don't know what he's had to suffer, and you need to be there to support him, no matter how angry or defensive you feel right now."

"Even if you don't think you feel anything for him right now, Draco, I know that at a time he…"

Hermione trails off, and she sits watching me. I don't need to let her continue, and I sit in silence, thinking of the meaning behind her words. If she's known that you felt something for me at a time, why did you leave me when you did?

I give Hermione the best smile I can conjure, though I know it's small and sad. She smiles back, and it's identical to mine. My gratitude for her companionship is immeasurable, although I generally don't show it. She has been such a relief to me over the years, that I'm glad you told her of our involvement before you left. She came to me when you disappeared that morning, and she told me all that she had known. I certainly avoided her in the beginning, but then we both began working for the same firm and ended up being partnered together. Hermione's helped me over the years, and although I am glad she is always there, I hate knowing that I'll never be able to repay her.

Without warning, the door to the drawing room opens. I turn to look at the figure standing in the door way, slightly recoiling from the screaming that is starting up again.

"_You_," Wilone hisses, streaking toward us and grabbing Hermione's arms. She picks Hermione up off the couch and shoves her toward the door. I stand up as Hermione falls to the ground, and I clench Wilone's arm angrily, spinning her around to face me. I know Wilone sees my rage if she does not already feel it in my grip. Her eyes narrow.

"Tell Ms. Granger," Wilone says, her voice quiet, barely audible against the shrieking in the background, "to leave our house immediately."

I narrow my eyes at Wilone, then in turn at Hermione as Wilone continues rapidly.

"And tell her to take Mr. Potter with her. I don't want that madman in our house any longer; he scares Rene and you're with him far too much, nearly as much as you are with that woman. She's been here every day since you brought Mr. Potter to the Manor, and I'm sick of it."

My eyes slide to stare into Wilone's; they've darkened in her anger and they're muddy, a very unbecoming color. I sneer, looking her up and down, deciding she's not worth my time any more, ignoring my prior uncertainty toward her fate. I push her away and stride over to Hermione, lowering myself to offer her my hand. She takes it, and unsteadily pushes herself up. I wonder why she waited for me to come help her.

As Hermione straightens next to me, I hear Wilone growl. She points an furious finger at me, but I ignore it. I turn to the door as I hear the screaming grow nearer. I wonder how the child could have even gotten out of her cot, if that is where Wilone left her – she wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave her daughter simply anywhere. However, Wilone's threatening tone causes me to snap back to her attention.

"I've taken your abuse, _darling_; I've taken it for the past five years, and I've had enough of it. You've left me in the dark, and you force me outside so that you don't have to face me every morning."

I suddenly feel as if a dull nail is being forced down my throat and through my system as I try to form coherent words. I do not understand why her realization surprises me; perhaps I have thought too little of her intelligence all this time.

"I know exactly what you've been playing at for years. You've never loved me, and you've never loved our daughter. I don't even know how I convinced you that we should have a child. But I convinced myself that if I held on, that you would one day see me, and that one day you'd _want_ me instead of simply use me."

Wilone sneers, looking me up and down in disgust. The screaming continues in the background. "But I've seen the way you look at him; it's the way you should be looking at _me_. You hold him in your gaze and you worship every inch of him, staring at him for hours and hours as if he were a museum artifact.

"But he's about to break, and if you touch him, you know he'll fall to pieces. Is that what you want? Do you want to stoop down and put together the fragments of a broken man? Because if you do, I'm leaving; I'll have nothing to do with this anymore."

A hint of doubt creeps into me, twisting around in my stomach. It feels as if it should be a simple choice to make. My wife is my shadow, and she knows me down to every last detail. Wilone knows very well that I hate breaking routine; I know she wouldn't have presented me with this decision without using the fact against me. Even though she never attended Hogwarts, she is a Slytherin through and through. 

With that thought, I see the answer now, and I have to laugh at myself for being blind. It's simple, and I look up at her, keeping my expression neutral as I walk over to her with my hands held behind my back. The shrieking still continues, but Wilone now smirks, her head rising in her victory. I feel Hermione gasp, but I address Wilone before Hermione can interrupt.

"Wilone, do you not see how easy of a decision you've presented me? It has all become a simple choice between my lover and my companion, and it is very clear to me whom I would choose."

"Your lover," Wilone breathes.

"My lover, you see, would understand why I would leave them, seeing as said person loves me and wants the best for me. My companion, on the other hand, would grow loathsome, jealous and demand that I remind myself who is important to me."

Wilone's smile fades as I continue, and I know that I've confused her.

"And from the two options, I would choose to be with the person who is most prepared for me to leave."

I step forward, and I lean forward, my lips a bare fraction away from her forehead.

"And now," I breathe, as I feel Wilone inch forward. But I pull back before she takes the chance to touch me, "I bid you adieu."

Wilone's victorious smile is gone, replaced with a vulgar grimace, and her skin is a sheet of white starch. I keep telling myself that it is a simple decision, but the doubt is rising in my stomach, and the twists become vicious. My momentary surety is gone as quickly as it had come, and I have to tell myself that I will not let her manipulate me any longer, and that she may leave if she doesn't like what I'm doing. But I don't like what I'm doing either, and I already fear that my choice may not have been the right one.

She knows not to throw herself at me. I wouldn't welcome her into my arms, for I never have in the past. Her hands are gripping the sides of her dress, and in one decisive moment she breaks eye contact and walks away, side stepping me as she makes her way to the door.

I watch her stop at the door, and I narrow my eyes, wondering why she pauses. I look around at Hermione, and I see that her eyes are wide, her mouth parted slightly in surprise. She glances at me, quickly mouthing _"Rene"_. I realize now that the screaming has stopped – Rene must have fallen asleep while I was dismissing Wilone.

I begin mouthing back to Hermione, asking her what she think has happened, when I hear the drawing room door slide open, and Wilone screeches. The sound is sudden and piercing, and I shudder, turning to see what is going on. 

With a jolt, I feel like I'm being hit with the Cruciatus Curse, as my skin seems to peel away and leave me exposed, allowing a million shards of obsidian to slice in and through me. It feels like something's eating me from the inside and forcing its way out, painfully tearing my heart from its place and shredding it with its incisors. Hot lava begins to fill my head and when I try to move I feel as if there are lead weights in my fingers and my feet, forcing me to stay in place.

You're standing there with Rene in your arms. She's sleeping and your face is bleeding; she must have scratched you. Wilone stares at you, unmoving, her mouth open as her scream dies on her lips. Her eyes are wide in fear, but you don't see her. Your arms are holding Rene so close to your chest that the girl might not be able to breathe and I am enraged; you wouldn't want to be anywhere near the girl if you knew who she was. I watch as you look down at her and your eyes clear, and I suddenly feel everything in me explode.

I begin walking toward you – you're not supposed to look at any one like that; you're not supposed to see any one but _me_. No one should not be looked at like that, especially someone as spoiled and impure as Rene. I want to rip her from your arms and make you look at me, make you see me.

But Wilone realizes what's going on, and her eyes narrow in anger. She sees that it is her daughter there in your arms, and she steals Rene from you. She doesn't look back at any of us as she glides out the room, and the last thing I see are her skirts flowing out the doorway.

I try to stand my ground and look incensed, look furious, but there is a rope around me that is drawing me toward you. I despite my rage, I cannot help but look to you, hoping that you'll look at me now that Rene is gone. Hermione tries to hold me back but I draw closer to you, and I realize that you're searching the room for something. Quickly your eyes wander in the direction Wilone and Rene went, and your eyes grow dark again. However, it is not the same darkness of confusion and blindness that covered your eyes when I first saw you. It's something else and I shudder because I know that look very well. It is the same look that my father gave me when I refused to kill an innocent; it is the look I imagine my mother would have given me when I killed my father. It's the look I would have given you had I seen you ten years ago, if you had told me that you were leaving. It's the look you're giving Rene now, though I don't understand why.

It's the look of betrayal.


	5. Disintegration: Part 5

I finish tying down the restraints, my gaze skimming over your body as you lay quietly on the bed. I wonder why you haven't put up a struggle, why you let me carry you up. It's not that I wanted to carry you; I would have been fine casting a _mobilicorpus_, but Hermione insisted that magic use would have caused a tip on the balance. In other words, you would have gone stark mad. But you are already.

I watch you as your eyes slide over to look out the window. They're lighter than they have been since I brought you to the Manor. I wonder what has brought about such a change. You don't mumble any more, and though I'm grateful for the quiet, I don't understand what's going on. I hate it when I don't understand what's going on.

I hate being left alone again. Granted, I dismissed Wilone, but being left without another half is a stage I've been trying to avoid. I shake my head in disgust as I sit on the armchair beside your bed. You stole my independence when we were younger, robbing it from me much like how a beggar would steal bread from my basket when I'm not looking. Undeserving filth. But unlike the beggar, you stole something from me that I'll never be able to replace; something that I don't want to try replacing.

It confuses me, and I run a hand through my hair. I'm not supposed to feel regret for letting Wilone leave. I'm not supposed to feel lost. I feel like there's a glimmer of sand far away, a sudden hope for dry land filling me, but I find that it's only the sun playing off the ocean that I'm surrounded by. I want to let that water wash over me and pull me down. I need to rest and let it take over my senses and simply let me float to my destruction.

I feel helpless. Malfoys aren't supposed to feel helpless.

I rub the heel of my palms into my eyes, willing away the headache that threatens to torture me. I already have enough here that tortures me, namely you, and I don't need any more.

I open my eyes to find you slowly closing yours. Your chest rises and falls slowly. In the fading light that shines through the open windows, your face is peaceful and you seem…real. You're more than real, though; you look like you've been here all these years, like you belong in the world that you left behind.

You're almost normal while you sleep. It's the first time I've seen you sleep, and you're almost sane in my mind while my gaze memorizes the details of your face. I forgot that there's a small freckle behind your right ear, but now that I see it I remember how I used to sit behind you and lick at that spot, reveling in the triumph of hearing a moan escape your lips.

But I torment myself by recalling the way you made me feel, and I try to block it all out. You shift in your sleep, exposing the back of your neck, and I feel like I'm drowning again, feeling helpless. My arms are aching the way they had back at the Ministry on the day that they found you, and I feel myself slide off the armchair and onto my knees before your bed.

No one else is here, I tell myself. No one will know except myself, and even if you did wake up you wouldn't understand what's going on. I need this, I remind myself, I need a solace of sorts, and if touching you will bring that about then I have a justified reason.

My fingers stretch out to touch your skin, gliding above the area that I long to touch. But I hesitate, and when I hear a bird screech out side the window I jump back, falling back on the floor. I find that my breathing is rapid and I shake my head, allowing my fingernails to bite into my palms in my anger. What am I doing, trying to touch you? No reason is justified enough for me to think I can touch you.

I start when I hear the door open and I curse myself for being caught on the floor. Malfoys are not found on the floor and they are not found by your bedside. I should be standing a considerable distance away and observing you in your state. I should be sneering at you; I shouldn't feel helpless enough to want to touch you.

I shouldn't be here at all.

"Malfoy."

I groan inwardly, shooting a glare over my shoulder as I stand up. I do not turn to face him as the light dwindles.

"Yes, Weasley?"

"He's alright."

I furrow my brow at the statement and take a step to turn around. I'm not surprised to see that he's let himself in and I frown. I would have thought he had addressed it as a question, not as a fact. Something strikes me as pathetic as I see him standing there; more so than I have ever had the opportunity of witnessing.

"I presume you mean Potter, Weasley. Yes, he –"

Weasley grimaces. "Don't look at me that way, Malfoy. It makes it look like you're constipated."

"Resorting to childish remarks, are we? Things don't seem to change during the course ten years, do they, Weasley? Your immaturity is a perfect example of that."

Weasley doesn't even flinch, and I have to admire his self control as he takes several breaths. Not admire; more like anticipate his next blow. He's silent for a time, and I want to tell him to leave the room, but he speaks up.

"Hermione wants to know how he got out."

"How is 'he un-strapped himself' for an answer?"

"Improbable."

"Ah…But it is the truth."

Weasley frowns. "He's not…capable of doing that, Malfoy."

I wonder why he won't call you by your name.

"But he did."

He pauses. "I can tell by your short answers that you don't want me here."

"How very wise of you."

"Well I don't like being here either."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because…"

I wait.

"I have to tell you something."

I still wait.

"Malfoy, I hate you."

I roll my eyes. "Merlin, that's it? I though you were going to confess your sordid love affair with my wife. Ex-wife, actually."

Weasley scowls, but continues as if he hasn't heard me.

"I hate you, but I know that you're the only one who can help him."

I look quizzically at Weasley, tilting my head. I again wonder why he doesn't address you by your given name, but I let the matter slide. I don't know what he's playing at, and I want to be ready to throw what I can back at him.

But he turns around and opens the bedroom door, looking back briefly.

"I know you'll take care of him."

I cross my arms, annoyed. "I do believe that's what I said I would do."

Weasley has the audacity to shake his head. "I don't care what you said to the rest of us, or what you said to Hermione. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't heard it from him." He looks pointedly behind my shoulder and I resist the urge to look at your sleeping figure.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Weasley."

I want to rip that head off his neck; he won't stop shaking it.

"Just…make him better, Malfoy."

I gape after Weasley as he closes the door with a soft click, and I want to yell after him and remind him that that's not my job. I'm not your best friend, and I'm not your nanny. I'm not supposed to watch you like the baby-sister watches the toddler, and I don't want to be stuck with you. I might start feeling helpless again.

The silence is eerie now. I start to wonder why Weasley believes that I'll take care of you. The tone of his voice mortifies me; it is as if I am to care for you with affection. Almost like he knows we were once together. But I don't know where he bases this belief. I won't go searching for the evidence either.

I sigh. Today has been hell to get through. It has been nearly as bad as the first day you returned. I don't know exactly how you got out, but seeing your bedroom in the condition it was when I brought you back up, I can only reason that you had un-strapped yourself and walked out of the room. But that's impossible, just as Weasley said. It might be possible that Rene got you out, but she was supposed to have been in her cot.

I slump back down into the armchair by your bed. I don't want to think any more. I've given up enough things for the past several weeks that I don't need to give up my sanity now. I feel drained and there's nothing in the world that could possibly give me the drive to stand up and walk out of the room.

There's a rustling of sheets, and I figure that you're uncomfortable. You continue to move, and I start to grow uneasy; you were silent before, maybe something's going wrong. Maybe I should make sure you're alright.

But my head's too heavy to lift and I sigh again. I wish the light of day would fade now and let me rest. Maybe sleep will take away the weariness.

The moving stops and I'm almost relieved. But I hear feet falling to the ground, and my head shoots up while my eyes widen in shock. I want to back up and disillusion myself so that you, standing there, won't see me, that you'll simply walk past me. But your eyes are focused on mine and they're green; real green, like grass and emeralds and envy.

The sheets disentangle themselves from your legs as you take an unsteady step towards me. I was right; you some how are able to loosen the restraints on your bed. If I had been thinking I would have remembered to lock them with magic, but it seems this day and night are not times for thinking.

I want to speak to you and warn you to stay away from me, but if I speak you will not hear. If I speak it might upset you, and I can't have a madman loose and displeased.

You're nearing and I grip the sides of the chair. Why aren't you distracted like you have been all the other times before? You've been calm lately, but this isn't natural, this isn't right. You're being _normal_, like you've been alive all this time.

I push myself further into the back of the armchair. Why is it that I am the one who is left alone? Why is it that I am the one who is tortured? Why are you here and why are you so _alive_?

You're standing in front of me now. Why can't you be strapped in the bed? You're making me feel weak and helpless again. It's like the way you made me feel when we were younger.

Your hand is reaching out. I'm trying to pull away, but you're moving slowly and I can't back away any farther.

I bite my lip and shut my eyes. I'm so weak; my father would have killed me if he had ever seen me this way.

Rough fingertips scrape the side of my cheek. I flinch, and the sting is painful enough to bleed. The touch slides down my neck, scratching me. It's agony to sit here and not stop you. You shouldn't touch me; I didn't tell you that you were allowed to. But you wouldn't hear my warnings, and you wouldn't hear my pleas. I just want this to end.

There's a sound, and it sounds like gravel when carriages are driven over it. It's just as excruciating as your hand on my face, and I can feel the pain seep through me. My chest is blindingly hot and it's agonizing. I open my eyes to see a blurry smudge of black against the fading light behind you.

The sound is there again, and it tears through me. I haven't heard you speak in years. I haven't heard you say that for eternity.

_"Mine."_

Maybe I'll let myself be helpless, if you say it once again.


	6. Lassitude: Part 1

She feels her abdomen constrict, the muscles of her stomach clenching like a fist taut with anger, and then release in a painful, swift motion. She closes her eyes to prevent herself from seeing the contents that spew from her open mouth, and she cries out in pain and disgust. Against her protesting muscles, she forces herself onto the floor, wishing there were strong arms around her as she curls up on her side. In the back of her mind she vaguely wonders why she lays flush against the cold and tries to retain body heat at the same time, but the rhythmic beating against her head and ribs is more vivid than such thoughts.

"Ron…" she chokes out. There is no answer.

Her whole body shakes, the tremors vibrating to the tips of her fingers. A loud, piercing ring echoes in her ears and a sob escapes her lips as she shakes her head, trying in vain to rid herself of the noise.

But there's another sound, and it is more thunderous than her thoughts and the ringing. It's high and low in pitch at the same time, and it quiets everything.

She looks around in groggy wonder, opening her eyes to small slits. There's a blinding white light in the foreground of pastel green tiles, and her vision is only clear enough to make out the shapes of the toilet and tall, pristine white sink. She lifts her head a fraction, trying to remember what direction the sound came from.

She hears it again and looks up toward the sink. She envisions the faucet and the small drop that must have fallen.

_Drop._

She knows Draco will have a tantrum when he finds out that the plumbing in his house is not perfect. A small smile forms on her face and she closes her eyes as she slowly lets her head fall to the floor.

She wonders how Draco is doing. He seemed reluctant to take Harry up to his room. She'd wanted to follow him, but Ron had decided to walk in at that moment. It wasn't the first time that she hadn't been happy to see him, and she had reluctantly told him what happened. She had wanted to race up to see how Harry was doing, but Ron kept her downstairs, not moving from his place. She knew he didn't want to go anywhere near Draco, and all she could think was that he was being a child again. He was being her insensitive best friend, and not her husband. She had growled in her frustration, and decided that she would treat him that way in return.

_Drop._

"Why do you even trust him, Hermione?" he had asked.

"Because he's my _friend_, Ron. Trusting is what friends generally do. But you seem to fail at it when I'm around him!"

Ron ignored her comment. "And does he trust you?"

It was then that her stomach had felt like it had been infected with lead – the poisonous kind that pipes had once been made of. She doesn't know why it happened, but she had suddenly needed to be violently ill. She had told Ron that now was not the time, and asked that he check on them while she ran to the nearest lavatory.

_Drop._

Here she is now, lying on the tiles after an extreme emptying of her bowels. She wonders why she had felt ill at the moment of his question. Hermione has been feeling ill for the past several weeks, starting around the time they found Harry. She doesn't think she was sick because of Ron's question; it was simply bad timing.

_Drop._

Poor Harry. She remembers how Draco had said weeks after Harry's appearance that he would help personally with Harry's recovery. Draco wouldn't just provide for him, but also teach him. She thinks it was during a moment of weakness, being strained between his demanding work and his conflicting emotions. Draco's frailty has not escaped Hermione's attention; he would never admit to it, but she knows that he does not eat and does not sleep; he is so consumed by his thoughts during the day that he does not consider his physical needs anymore.

_Drop._

Harry has been a blow to Draco's system, and Hermione knows the consequences. It has happened before, even though she was not friends with Draco when it first happened. Harry had approached her late at night years ago, and told her simply to watch Draco. His meaning implied that he wanted Draco safe, and it scared Hermione. She had noticed his late night disappearances during their Hogwarts days, the glances and the intensified desire the boys had had to start fights. She had wondered if they had fought during that time simply to touch each other.

And when she realized that Harry had left the next morning, she had run to find Draco out on the lawn near the lake. Some how he had known too, and when he had looked up at her there had been such a hollow pit that had buried itself in Draco's eyes. Hermione remembers the urge she had had to scream, for Draco hadn't been expressionless, he had simply been a void.

_Drop._

"He's gone."

Silence.

"He's never left me without saying good-bye."

"So it's true?"

"That we were together?"

Silence.

"Every moment that we spend apart is testament to the fact that we no longer are."

_Drop._

There had been weakness there, dancing around the boy like the dust motes that were visible in the vivid sunlight. Draco had never been one to admit his feelings, but in such dire moments… Apparently he did. Hermione hadn't known what to do, and she had been afraid that she couldn't help Draco, let alone watch him like she had promised Harry.

It is not the first time that she wonders why she had been more afraid for Draco than for Harry. She knew at the time that Harry would keep himself safe, but she is amazed at how she had been so at peace with his disappearance. Hermione hadn't thought he would come back, because she knew that her friend needed something else; something lesser and far away from what he had. Harry hadn't needed publicity or praise or glory. Neither had he needed the blood of a thousand deaths on his hands. With that knowledge, Hermione had been willing to move on from her life with him.

She only wishes Ron and Draco had been as well.

_Drop._

She wishes she had not witnessed Draco's reaction those first few days, nor those first few years. There had been the empty shell of Draco Malfoy, the once cold being ripped to nothing by the disappearance of his rival. She had avoided him after their first encounter, but she hadn't been as successful with Ron. He was much like Draco; acting as if his life had ended with Harry's leaving. He didn't have faith that Harry was alright, or that Harry wanted to be gone. Ron was selfish and wanted Harry back.

But she had been selfish as well; both boys were pieces of fragile framework that she hadn't wanted to carry, and avoided at all times. She may have been at peace with Harry leaving, but the remains of what he had left behind were over-whelming. People needed help and comfort, and the wizarding world had to recover from the back lash of the war. On top of that, people wanted to know where their Hero was, and she had had no answers to give them.

_Drop._

But it had all seemed irrelevant within a matter of weeks. Hermione had always liked to think she was a respectable being, and she had kept her promise to Harry. She watched Draco daily, but she found after he had overcome his initial shock, Draco could not remain rational in any way. His life after Hogwarts soon constituted of constant searching. He pulled every string he could to find Harry, and when his resources were used up, Hermione had watched him go through law school and learn more, creating new connections, learning new ways of manipulating people, and demand that a more thorough search be done for Harry.

His passion has been non-existent. Draco Malfoy had been known to be vibrant in his anger, but it had been wiped from him. His determination had become dull, though it was as stubborn as ever. Hermione had hoped with a strange, strangled sort of hope that that one remaining characteristic would revive him; that his hatred would kick in and drive at full speed instead of being stuck in neutral.

She has watched him daily, her job in the research department at the firm being her only success in the whole mess. Quite frankly, she thinks, the job is as dull as a spoon, no matter if it involves books. She has never wanted to be there, and still doesn't, but every day she reminds herself of the promise she has made and endures the tedium.

_Drop._

But there were days, and always are days, where she wishes she could escape to her home, to the home that she shares with Ron. She believes that home is a release, or at least that it is supposed to be. However, during their first years of marriage, Hermione had never wanted to go home. Home had never been a release. It was simply another job; marriage was another career. She would come home to a dark, empty house, and she would spend many of her nights searching for her husband.

It was to her horror that she found him at a pub the first time. She hadn't even known what had made her think to go there, but once she found him there, she eventually realized that she wouldn't find him anywhere else.

The expression 'drowning your sorrows' had very literal meaning to Ron. He started off buying drinks with the money he made playing for the Chudley Cannons, burning holes in his pockets within a matter of moments. The success and pride he might have felt in knowing that he had made it to play for his favorite team was lacking. Hermione soon found Ron not playing for his love of Quidditch, but playing for his love of nights spent at pubs.

_Drop._

Hermione had tried to keep Ron from returning to the pubs at night. He eventually developed a habit of going to a different pub every night, and it took her weeks to decide that there was no pattern to his night activities. She had given up stopping him, and even after Ron was kicked off the Cannons for not playing up to par she didn't stop him from finding new jobs to provide him with a substantial income. She had asked herself on many occasions what could she do, but there had been no answer, except to leave him be.  
It had made her feel so useless, knowing she couldn't look to the library to solve her problems like she had when she was at Hogwarts. So late at night, earlier on in their marriage, Hermione would return to the empty house and cry herself to sleep. She could never bring herself to wait up for her husband.

_Drop._

She doesn't have that problem now. Though Ron may not spend all his nights at the pubs anymore, on the nights when she can't face home Hermione still on occasion stays at Draco's flat in the city. Now that Harry is here at the Manor; she may not even return home for many days and nights at a time. She'll even stay here longer than previously intended, she decides, now that Wilone is gone. She knows Draco will need her help.

_Drop._

The faucet will serve to drive her insane if she doesn't leave now. Hermione pushes herself off the floor. The world is tossed back and forth as she stands, and for a second she closes her eyes and puts a hand on her stomach. She momentarily wonders why her world seems topsy-turvy, why things seem to whirl and spin. Hermione has been to see a medi-witch, but she has only been told that she's in perfect condition. When Hermione feels that she has control of her senses, she slowly makes her way to the hall and up the grand staircase. 

The portraits on the Manor walls ignore Hermione as she passes them, and the corridors wrap her in a life size package of eerie, pressurized silence. She's uncomfortable walking down the suffocating hallways alone. It is sometimes hard to forget that this house once belonged to a man who hated people like her. She sometimes anticipates a trap at every corner, believing someone may still be seeking her end. She is relieved to find the door to the west wing bedroom where she knows Harry is staying, and she reaches out to grasp the handle. The silver knob is warm, and she jumps back slightly.

Hermione wonders who could have just entered. She had sent Draco up with Harry what seems forever ago. Someone else must have gone in.

Ron.

Hermione pushes the door open, hoping for some unknown reason that she'll find her husband. She thinks that her illness has caused her to want Ron's company, to relax in some shred of normality that she can find. It takes her a moment to remember that the only person who can provide her that relief is Draco, and not even he is in such a state to do so.

Hermione shakes her head in irritation. How could she want 'normal' at a time like this?

As the irritation begins to swell, she blames Harry. She begins to think that if he had never left, Ron wouldn't be a mess and neither would she. If he had never come back, Draco wouldn't be caught up in it either, and she wouldn't think that things could possibly be normal. The anger grows, being infectious like a foreign disease, and no matter how hard she tries to fight it, it continues to spread like a fever running rampant in her veins. Hermione knows that she shouldn't be angry, but she is. She shouldn't blame Harry, but there's no other scapegoat right now.

But how could she think so ill of her friend? Hermione wonders. He is in no state of mind to take the blame, and had she not been at peace with his choice for the past ten years?

Taking a deep, calming breath, Hermione closes her eyes and wills herself to think rationally. This is not Harry's fault. Harry is her friend, and she is glad that he is back. All she needs right now is the company of someone; Draco, or even her husband. She needs some one to lean onto, because quite suddenly she is feeling dizzy again. She takes a few more deep breaths before opening her eyes.

Hermione looks around the room from across the threshold and finds that it is empty. Harry's bed constitutes a rumpled sheet and she cannot see anything else save for the back of the large armchair. Her previous anger dissipates as Hermione finds herself confused, and she steps into the room. Not a moment later, she knows she should not have entered. A tremor of fear shakes her body as she sees Harry's head over the top of the armchair. Within an instant, he no longer stares down at the chair, but at her, and his gaze is piercing. Hermione begins to tremble violently as Harry continues to stare at her.

Why is she shaking? Had she not just told herself that this is her friend? She should not be terrified of him. Harry isn't even sane enough to see her, she reminds herself. But there is something about the look in his eyes that suggests to Hermione that this is no longer true. He's straightening up, his gaze never shifting.

Hermione's eyes widen as Harry walks around the chair, his whole body now in front of her. She cannot deny her fear anymore as he grows closer. He seems to strengthen with every stride, and Hermione feels her muscles grow tired as he draws nearer. It's as if his presence is draining every ounce of energy in her body, and like water it is evaporating from her system. She can feel herself being sucked dry, and she falls to the floor.

Her head lies at Harry's feet, and Hermione rolls cautiously to look up at her friend. He looks taller than she remembers him being. But she cannot be sure as her eyes are falling closed. Her lids can no longer stay open, and her head rolls to the side. Her awareness seems to drain away as she lies on the floor.

She can, quite vividly despite her fading thoughts, hear Harry's feet tread across the carpeted floor; hear movement in the large armchair a couple meters away.

She can hear the small, familiar voice, speaking, saying a name.

"Harry?"

The last thing Hermione remembers thinking is that she has never heard Draco say his name before.


	7. Lassitude: Part 2

Some people call the sensation fiery. Some can hardly stand the feeling, yet ache in a desperate way to again partake of it. To Ron it is like coming home, consuming the liquid in swift, harsh gulps. There's the adrenaline that rises as it hits the back of his throat, like the anticipation he feels before opening the front door, wondering if anyone will be home to welcome him. Then he relaxes, allowing the familiar fluid to run down his throat and into his stomach, and it's soothing. It's familiar, like being hugged by some one you love, and as the beverage nestles in his abdomen, Ron is reminded of the feeling of hot tea warming his stomach after a long day at work.

But as the glass hits the wooden bar he signals for another round, feeling miserable. He feels like he's swimming in a sea of booze and pain, and he only knows one way to get out of it – to drown himself in it.

He doesn't like to drown himself in the pain, but every where he goes he knows he'll find it. There's pain at work, where he does not have a passion for a career. He seeks out a new job every week, only to be laid off again. They tell him he has commitment issues, and that he needs to develop his perseverance and endurance.

Pain shrouds itself in the everyday objects of his life. The broomstick against the wall reminds him of flying around the Quidditch pitch with Harry. The chess set on the coffee table was given to him by Harry. The jokes he tells he remembers laughing to with Harry. The pictures on the walls, the news in the Daily Prophet – everything is reminiscent of Harry.

There's pain at home, too, where there's never a wife to greet him, but only the ghost of a child lingering in the walls of a room that it might have grown up in. There are such mass volumes of grief in that room. When Hermione isn't home he walks into it and looks around at the walls. He lies on the floor and wonders what he has done to deserve such a life. He wonders why there isn't a child on the floor with him, jumping up and down and crawling all over him, screaming "Daddy, Daddy, make me fly!"

Has Ron made some sort of choice in the past that prevents his happiness now? He doesn't know and it causes an endless rage to build up inside of him. It's like boiling oil, scathing any surface that it touches. Every now and then it pops, and a torrent of pain and anger floods out after it.

The only way he knows how to calm this current of rage is to give it another of its kind.

Alcohol, Ron reckons, is an angry man's drink. To kill the fury, feed it fury. It is much like the process of cancellation that Ron has seen Hermione practice in Arithmancy problems. If he wants to get rid of a problem, then he needs to match it with a problem that is equal to it.

Ron snatches the glass from the grim bartender and slams it back, downing its contents in one swift motion. He relishes its familiarity as it slides down his throat again.

Sometimes he wonders if he finds enjoyment in drinking simply because it fights the anger inside him. It doesn't make sense to Ron as he turns the thought over in his head. He sits back slightly and puts the glass back on the bar top. He drinks to fight anger, he knows, but isn't Ron angry because his life seems to be going wrong, because wife is angry with him?

And why is Hermione angry with him?

A vague picture forms in Ron's mind, and he pulls at the fringes of his memory to dig it out.

Ron remembers one night, nearly five years ago. He had been at a point in his life where he had tried to devote his life to his work. He had trained countless nights to reach the standard expected to make a Quidditch team. Though Hermione was working at a law firm he had had the urge to contribute to the household income himself, to give him some purpose.

He had eventually made it to play for the Chudley Cannons. But when he had, there had been no joy; there had been no bubbling excitement that rose from his toes and up into his chest like there had been during his Quidditch days at Hogwarts. There had only been dull relief, knowing that he could do something with his life and not feel like he was wasting away.

But on this particular night, five years ago, there had been a small reunion. The students from their year that had survived the war had gathered together to celebrate their five year reunion. Ron had not wanted to go, and Hermione had agreed. Neither one had wanted to face their former peers and be questioned about the man who would not be there with them. Nor had they wanted to receive the condolences regarding their lost child from people they would not recognize. 

However, on the night of the reunion, Hermione had returned home early, demanding that Ron put on his dress robes. He had protested, but Hermione had been adamant. Ron never understood why she had suddenly changed her mind.

Ron had spent the whole night at his table while Hermione had watched the crowd like a hawk. Her arms had been crossed and she had glared the entire night, and Ron had no doubt that there had been an invisible, crackling, negative energy surrounding her, warning off their peers, because no one came near them. Ron had sat at the table and amused himself with thoughts of what the energy surrounding them might look like. It would be green, because all energy seemed to be green in his mind. It had been dark, and it was like a lightning storm…

All his thoughts reminded him of someone. They reminded him of eyes, eyes that he would never forget, even though he had not seen them for five years. He dreamt of them at night, sometimes, when he had wished so fiercely that his friend was back.

The thought had been upsetting. He didn't want to remember Harry, because it made him remember what life had been like before the end of the war. Aggrieved, Ron had made his way to the bar at the edge of the dance floor. It was a night of fun amongst his former friends, but he could not share their enjoyment and mirth. He had sat himself down and asked for the strongest drink the bartender had on hand.

Ron doesn't remember how much he drank that night. He does remember that it felt good to have the alcohol slide down his tongue, and he remembers the occasional murmur from friends as they had bid their concern; he shouldn't be drinking that much, they had said. The rest was a blurry haze of lights and amber colored liquid in crystal glasses.

Then there was the screaming as he fell into darkness.

"Ronald Weasley!"

He had opened his eyes and looked up from the ground.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Ron had coughed and mumbled something.

He remembers people laughing and Hermione sobbing, and he doesn't remember what he had done but it must have been something awful. It must have been something embarrassing. But he doesn't remember.

He does remember that Malfoy had taken Hermione home that night. He recalls seeing Hermione clinging to Malfoy and crying into his shoulder, spoiling his suit. Malfoy hadn't held Hermione in any comforting way, but he had sneered down at Ron.

"No woman, muggleborn or pureblood, deserves to be humiliated by her husband."

Malfoy's words, the ones spoken as he had left, had stuck with Ron. And when Ron had gone home when he was sober enough to walk, he had intended on apologizing to Hermione.

But she hadn't been home. She had been with Malfoy.

He remembers now that that was what had caused the initial frustration and irritation that fueled Hermione and Ron's marriage. She had been embarrassed, and had been swept away by the Ferret. Ron doesn't understand what sort of obligation Malfoy had felt toward Hermione at the time, but they did work together, and he must have felt some amount of pity for her.

Ron had been upset that his wife hadn't wanted to face him. So he had gone to drink his frustration away. But when she caught him drinking again, some nights later, she had gotten angry and he went out again to forget the issues he had.

He decides that life is all a vicious cycle of frustration and anger being bidden, then forgotten, only to be reiterated again.

That's why he drinks now, even though he knows it causes contention between him and his wife; because it helps him forget.

But he knows that tomorrow will only bring more fury.

"You planning on having another?"

Ron looks to the bartender. He decides that he is too sober to forget anything at this point, since he can still tell the difference between the man's nose hair and chest hair poking out of his robes. He grimaces and nods.

As he watches the amber liquid being poured into his glass, Ron is reminded of something. Someone's eyes, he thinks; Hermione?

With this thought, he wonders what Hermione is doing. When Ron had been at the Manor earlier, she had run off after telling him to check on Malfoy and Harry. It disgusts him, knowing she cares more for them than for her own husband. It annoys him when he goes home at night and realizes that Hermione is again at the Manor, or Malfoy's flat, and not where she belongs. Do Malfoy and Harry not already get enough attention? With Harry back, Hermione seems to be gone even more than before, spending even less time with Ron.

Ron had wanted to tell them. Ron wants to tell them, make them notice him and remember that he is there. He wants to tell them that he knows, that he overheard them talking about Harry a few years ago. He knows Malfoy and Harry had been together before Harry's disappearance. He had been sober one night and had wanted to bring Hermione home. He had wanted to prove to her that he could be a man, and that he wanted to be with her. He had gone to Malfoy's flat in the city and had heard them fighting. Hermione had been trying to convince Malfoy to stop looking for Harry. Malfoy had refused to listen to her and had been about to leave when Ron had hear Hermione scream "But if you love him you'll let him be, Draco!"

Ron had been frozen in terror. He had also been lucky that Malfoy had stopped and had not exited the flat, because he would have been found. He had heard Malfoy mumble something about not loving "Potter", and Hermione had mentioned Malfoy and Harry being together at Hogwarts.

He has never told them that he heard them, and Ron has been living with the knowledge of Malfoy and Harry's secret relationship for long enough. The truth is revolting to him. He had wanted to tell them that he knew that day at the Ministry when Harry had been found. He had been furious when Malfoy had said that he would take Harry to the Manor, and Ron had risen out of his seat as his blood had begun to boil. He had been so tempted to say what he knew, and it would have been like being sucked of all the happiness in the world by a dementor to not have been allowed to do so.

But Ron knows that they mustn't know that he knows. Long ago, when they had been at Hogwarts, Ron remembers the way Harry had become wistful toward the end of the war. He would disappear at night and when he got back Ron was there waiting for him. But when Ron asked Harry what was going on, Harry had not answered. Harry had looked at Ron with such power that it had danced in his eyes, like green flames. Ron had been afraid of that power, and let Harry pass without answering.

But one night, the night before Harry disappeared, Ron remembers Harry telling him that, "I trust him, Ron, and I trust you to not let him know that."

He hadn't known what Harry had meant then, but he does now. He decides that he will not tell Malfoy what he knows, because in some twisted, strange way, he had silently sworn to Harry that he would not do so.

Ron remembers now how much he misses Harry as he pushes his drink away. The alcohol is failing to help him forget, and he is only more aware of all the time he misses flying with his friend, playing cards and chess. He misses seeing Harry be a leader, misses Harry being shy and nervous, and misses having some one to joke around with. Ron misses the simple things of his childhood, and he wants them back.

Ron blinks blearily from where he stands, having shoved himself from his seat. The world is unsteady and he gropes for balance. It's humorous how his mind seems so clear but the world around him does not. He wills away the mist that seems to be clouding his sight, and as he steps out of the bar, Ron hopes that he can make it to the Manor. He wants to start anew, with Harry, with Hermione.

He wants to fix life now.


	8. Lassitude: Part 3

There is hardly any light in the room as she opens her eyes. She is dimly aware of a candle in the corner of the room. Its glow should be soft, ethereal, like faint faerie lights enchanting a night encrusted garden, but instead is blinding in the dark expanse of the room. Hermione looks up at the ceiling, where it is not as bright, and she watches the shadows of various objects as they cast themselves on the walls. The shadows remind her of memories, imprinted and wavering, never stable and always changing. With every thought they shift and mold, transforming into an altered form of the original. She wonders if that is how Harry perceives his world.

Thoughts of Harry cause her to shudder. What power could possibly have manifested itself and caused her friend's lunacy? A thought in the back of Hermione's mind suggests that he could have brought his madness on himself, by being away from society or any possible guilt that might have followed him to wherever he went, but Hermione banishes it. Harry would never do that to himself, she rationalizes.

Prohibiting any further thoughts, Hermione focus on her surroundings. As her eyes begin to grow accustomed to the lighting she recognizes the velvet hangings on the canopy of the bed. Rich navy paint comprises the walls and silver accents glimmer in the candle light. Hermione shudders again.

Her chambers at Malfoy Manor are cold. She wishes there was a fire in the fire place.

Hermione crawls out of the bed, slipping out of the silk covers. She pads over to where she knows the fire place is, and lowers herself onto her knees. She wonders why her muscles ache. Her shoulders scream as she rolls them, her legs are cramped and sore. Her abdomen, too, is slightly painful, and she winces as her back refuses to bend to her will.

Belatedly, Hermione realizes that it's useless for her to be on the floor; she does not have her wand with her to light a fire. She crawls painstakingly slowly toward the large armchair a couple meters away and uses it as a support, putting all her weight on top of it. Hermione's legs wobble as she tries to stand and steady herself. She glances around the room, searching for her wand. Hermione is fully aware that she did not move herself to this room. She finds it perplexing that her wand would be seized from her.

There is a soft pop as Hermione pushes stray locks of hair back into their place.

"Is Miss alright?"

Hermione looks toward the house elf in surprise. "Toti?"

The elf nods.

"What are you doing at the Manor?"

"Master Draco was needing more help here, Miss. Toti said shes could take care of Master Potter."

"You knew I'd be here, didn't you?"

Toti's head bobs, her ears flapping. "Toti hasn't seen Miss at Malfoy Quarters for ages."

"Toti, I've told you that it's called a flat."

Toti cocks her head. "But Quarters are not flat, Miss."

Hermione sighs and rubs her forehead. "No they aren't."

Toti shuffles her feet. "Is Miss needing anything? Toti thoughts she heard someone call."

"Tell me how I got into my chambers, Toti; I recall fainting in a room on the other side of the Manor."

"Master Draco had Toti and other house elves bring Miss to her bed."

"How was Draco?"

Toti bites her lip. Hermione urges her to speak, reminding her that they're friends and that Draco trusts her. "Master was pale, Miss."

Hermione hesitates before nodding, knowing that Toti will not betray anything else. She shudders; the feeling reminds her of snowball fights when she was at Hogwarts, and how the boys would stuff ice down the back of her uniform. She feels like the ice is sliding down her back, leaving a trail of newly melted snow in its wake.

"Toti, would you be kind enough to light a fire for me? I'm not sure where my wand is."

Toti bounces a little and scurries toward the fireplace. Immediately a fire springs up, and Hermione watches Toti scamper back.

"Thank you, Miss."

Hermione chuckles a little. "You're too easily enthralled when I give you something to do, aren't you?

"Miss never lets Toti do things for her."

"Thank you, Toti."

Hermione turns around to sit in her arm chair, and she lowers herself slowly, hoping to prevent any pain. She closes her eyes in weariness, only to open them again when a small hand tugs on her robes.

"Yes Toti?"

"Madame says Miss may have her wand back."

Hermione looks at Toti in surprise as the house elf, dressed in the remains of a velvet curtain, steps up on her tip-toes to hand Hermione her wand. She takes the vine wood from the elf, nodding her thanks as she stares at the wand in wonder. Toti bows and leaves, taking care so as not to disturb Hermione.

The fire crackles, golden sparks dancing as they enchant the darkness before them. They send ribbons of light shooting across the room, vibrant and full of energy. Eventually spent, the sparks spiral downwards, twirling and curling in on themselves. Like ballet dancers, Hermione muses; they leap and glide and whirl with grace and speed, only to end in a slow, melancholy flow of fluid movements. She continues to watch the embers of the fire as she fingers her wand.

Who had had her wand? Hermione is the only woman left in the house, and the only 'Madame' that Hermione can think of is no longer allowed in the Manor. As soon as she left, Wilone was to never be able to enter again.

Unless, Hermione realizes, she has yet to leave.

Quite suddenly, Hermione hears the curtains to the windows being torn open. The sound of the rings running across the rail startles her, and she tenses in her chair. There is no downpour of light coming from the direction of the windows behind her, and Hermione curses. Without light, there are no shadows. Hermione grips her armchair in anticipation, her ears pricked for any sound of movement.

Clicking approaches, but becomes muffled as the footsteps travel from stone floor to carpet. It stops to the right of her chair, and Hermione can feel the person hovering there. She refuses to acknowledge the person's presence, and waits for the person to speak first.

"Finest elf in all of England, I dare say. She was trained by the best."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Which is obviously not you, Wilone, seeing as Toti was brought from Denmark."

Wilone does not comment. She moves in front of where Hermione is seated, her skirts rustling as she turns to face Hermione. Wilone glares down at her, holding her hands behind her. Hermione stares up at Wilone in silence.

"There is no wonder as to why my widower is so fond of you; you are far too obstinate to be a proper lady."

"Why don't you ever call him Draco?" Hermione spits out, forgetting her silence and ignoring Wilone's comment.

Wilone laughs. It is not a pleasant sound, but like a knife, slicing at Hermione's nerves. There is no mirth, no amusement. There is only contempt molded into a box, taking the place of Wilone's voice in her throat.

"Of all things, I had expected you to ask me why I speak as if death had been brought down upon me."

"That was my next question."

Wilone's dark eyes look malevolent in the firelight. They flicker and brighten into gold and amber, then are instantly wiped, blank and dark, only to blaze again. Her eyes are life and death within a moment.

"It is not my place to call him by name, and I only hold resentment for those lower than I who are disrespectful enough to do otherwise." 

"If I cut away all the flamboyant wording, you are simply saying that I'm worthless."

"I wanted to be sure that the implication was clear."

Hermione scoffs, rolling her eyes. "A word of advice; if you ever want to tell anyone what you want them to know, say it. Don't gloss things over or make them more dazzling with your excessive words. Anyone would have nightmares if they even tried to catch your meaning."

Wilone's eyes narrow, her face growing sour and contorted in the firelight. Her lips pucker and she steps forward, towering over the seated Hermione.

"You're not worth the slime and filth on a rat's tail, Mudblood."

Hermione's eyes widen. She has not heard that derogatory term since the early days of her career at the research department. The only one who had called her by such a station – no, not a station, but a crude, degrading name – was Draco, on the days that Hermione had pestered him most.

"Tell me," Hermione says, finding her voice quickly. It hardens as she narrows her eyes, "Are you simply a reincarnate of your husband's past prejudice, or do you have an opinion at all?"

Wilone's pursed lips stretch into a smirk as she takes a step back. Her robes flow after her.

"Did you pick up your snark from him?"

"Who? Ron? Harry? Trust me when I say that neither has much snark in them."

"That is a given, seeing as _your_ husband is never sober and Mr. Potter is dead."

In a flash, Hermione's on her feet, her wand tip at Wilone's pale throat. She can feel her hair standing, energy crackling on the ends. Her body temperature is rising and she's itching and it feels like she's being chewed by giant ants. She can feel their incisors digging into her skin, and she tries her hardest to keep her voice low and dangerous.

"I am usually a very tolerant woman, Wilone. But ever since I met you at the reunion five years ago there has been something about you that I haven't liked. I have had enough of you tonight, and I never want to have to see you again. Draco is no longer your husband, and you are no longer welcome in this house. Now leave, before I let him know that you're here."

Wilone's smirk slowly slips from her face, and she pulls her hands from behind her back, caring a picture frame between her fingers. She looks down at it, and Hermione can see that it contains a small photo of Rene. The child is playing in a sepia garden, composed of amber, white and chocolate flowers. She laughs as she chases a small, white butterfly, her spring dress light and bouncing with every footstep. Her dark, blonde hair, not as fair as her father's, dances in the wind as her hat is blown off her head. Rene stops to pick it up with her small hands and she looks up at Hermione. Her brown eyes are enhanced in the coloring of the photo, and she seems innocent as she smiles. Hermione wonders why Draco hates Rene.

"Sometimes," Wilone says, her voice cold, barely above a whisper, "I wonder why he agreed to have a child. Not only does he not care for her, but his sexual orientation doesn't even permit him to love me."

"You don't have to be heterosexual to love a member of the opposite sex." Hermione says through gritted teeth.

Wilone doesn't look up. Her head seems to sink further down, as if her mind is trapped within the frame of the picture. Maybe Wilone wishes to be caught in the world where only her daughter exists, where there is only the peace and joy of flowers and sunshine and ignorance. Hermione watches as wisps of brown hair fall from their place in Wilone's pins and down into her face. They seem to slip and pool down in loose locks, hiding Wilone. Hermione watches in silent wonder, pondering what Wilone could possibly be thinking.

Hermione notices a small tremor in Wilone's shoulders and the woman's head falls farther down. Hermione is almost worried as Wilone does not move any further. It soon seems as if she's become a statue, and the grief Hermione feels radiating from Wilone is presented in the folds of her clothes, in the way her hair drapes. It is present in the posture of the woman as her head hangs and her hands are clenched in silent pain. Hermione muses that Wilone is a masterpiece of pain.

After several long moments of no movement nor sound, Hermione shifts and her hand reaches to touch Wilone's. She's afraid to break the silence. But Hermione's basic instinct screams in fear, terrified that Wilone might not even be alive. What if her sorrow had clamped down on her heart and stopped its beating? What if it had rendered her incapable of anything?

Hermione might not like Wilone, but she must show some sort of compassion.

But before there's any contact, Wilone straightens, standing tall and regal. Hermione doesn't know if Wilone has been crying, but her cheeks are tinged and blotched. Hermione feels something pull at her heart, something that feels like tweezers plucking at her heartstrings. Something that causes her to body sag from its weight; it tastes bitter and cold. It reminds her of dreary days where there are only gray clouds in the sky and the atmosphere is murky.

Sympathy.

"Where will you go?" Hermione hears herself say.

Wilone looks down at her, and as she speaks her voice, tight and unsteady, betrays the fear behind the mask of composure.

"It doesn't matter."

Hermione doesn't know what to say, feeling her mind and voice empty of any comfort. Annoyance begins to play at the tips of her consciousness again as she watches Wilone turn on her heel, her skirts sweeping after her. It irritates her how such a woman can stir so many emotions in Hermione at once.

Hermione turns back around and lowers herself into her armchair again, suddenly realizing how tired she is. She closes her eyes and imagines hearing Wilone open the door. Hermione tries to wipe her conscience of any thought and emotion pertaining to Wilone, feeling like she cannot take any more. She needs to relax before she tries again to see Harry and Draco.

"Congratulations."

Hermione starts, opening her eyes again to find Wilone staring down at her. She almost thinks that she's staring at her abdomen.

"I beg you pardon?"

A ghost of a smile forms on Wilone's face.

"If I were still my husband's wife, Rene might have had a playmate. That is, of course, totally dependent on whether or not he would have allowed the two to be in each other's company."

Hermione watches in shock as Wilone leaves. She had tried to forget Wilone and everything that she was feeling, but a flurry of emotions is taking over Hermione's efforts. Excitement, joy, anxiety, confusion; all painted on a canvas that was herself. Pastels and paints of colors and scents splattered on, all evoking something different, stirring her. She feels light and heavy, and her body doesn't know if gravity pulls her up or down, and everything is a mixture of cool and warmth, all being spun around by some invisible finger, playing with her being.

Wilone's statement seems valid – how else can Hermione's fatigue, nausea and dizzy spells be explained? She has experienced this once before, and she owes it to her multiple distractions that she has not realized it until now.

Dread seeps in as Hermione sits back in her seat. It's a sinking feeling that's black and infectious, and it crawls throughout her body. She does not know if she's happy with the truth, and Hermione bites down nervously on her lip. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many factors that might not allow her the happiness that should come with such news. But she deserves this happiness.

But how will her husband feel if he is told the truth?


	9. Lassitude: Part 4

Rain was never a good sign.

Rain reflects the mood of a person or the consequences one must face or even the outcome of a situation or problem. At least, that is what Ron believes.

His footsteps become heavy as he treks through the mud on the path. He is lucky he chose a pub near the Manor tonight, because he has had to walk the entire night to get here. If the Manor had been any farther, Ron would have had to wait until he was sober to find Harry and Hermione. By then he may have convinced himself to not go to the Manor at all.

The rain continues to plummet down, beating against Ron's neck. He's lucky that the rain is cold, as it seems to clear his sight and his mind. His boots crunch on the gravel as he nears the front veranda of Malfoy Manor. The crunching grows louder and faster, and when Ron stops he realizes that he isn't the one making the noise. He looks up into the dark enveloped night only to see another dark figure move toward him, away from the lights of the Manor. It doubles in size as it approaches and Ron steps out of the way when he realizes that it is a carriage. The horses pulling the carriage neigh and snort as they pass Ron, hazy condensation shooting out their nostrils and rising into the night sky, and he watches them as they trot past.

A blonde head pokes out of the window and smiles. She waves clumsily before she's pulled back in. Ron watches tentatively as he hears a voice mutter, "Stay inside the carriage, Rene."

He wonders why Rene and Wilone are leaving the Manor this late a night.

Ron shakes his head as he wipes the mud off his boots against the pavement. He thinks he recalls Hermione mentioning something about Wilone leaving, but that had been hours ago. In fact, that had been yesterday evening, seeing as how the sun will be up any minute now.

He trudges up to the entrance of the Manor, and a light springs up at his presence. Cautiously, Ron opens his mouth to speak.

"Ron Weasley here to see Harry Potter. Please." He adds as an after thought.

The Manor is silent before him, and the extinguishing of the veranda light causes Ron to become nervous. There is no answer to his call as he speaks the words again. Ron does not want to turn around. He needs to see Harry and try and fix things between them, even if Harry might not understand him. He needs to see Hermione. Ron needs to apologize to her and tell her…

Wait.

"Ron Weasley here to see Hermione Granger," Ron says in a rush. For the first time, he hopes that Hermione has actually chosen to stay at the Manor instead of return home. He holds his breath, only to exhale when the front door creaks open. He's greeted by a small house elf, draped in the remains of a velvet curtain.

"Toti wishes Ron Weasley a good evening. Miss is in the east wing in her chambers, Sir."

Ron nods and steps over the threshold. He's thankful that he's more sober now than before, as the lights in the foyer might have blinded him. "Thank you, Toti."

With a small bow, Toti closes the Manor door. Ron turns his gaze toward the grand staircase. After magicking away the rest of the mud on his boots, Ron begins to make his way up the marble staircase, biding his time by admiring the various portraits and paintings on the walls. Ancestors of the Malfoy family and depicted scenes from various eras adorn the walls as Ron continues to climb. He wonders what he actually hopes to accomplish by seeing either Harry or Hermione. At the pub he had decided that he needed to talk to them and that he wanted a fresh start. But how he hopes to achieve such a thing so early in the morning does not seem logical to Ron.

He reckons he should talk to Harry, seeing as he may be the hardest to get through to. Ron wants to tell Hermione that he knows about Harry and Malfoy's relationship, and that he wants to have a normal marriage with her. He doesn't want them to fight and be angry all the time, and he doesn't want there to be secrets. But in order for him to confess his knowledge, he has to get permission from Harry. Ron doesn't think that this will be easy.

Which is why he should start to communicate with Harry now, he decides. Even if it's late, or early, if he starts to communicate now it will save him a day of communication in the future.

It doesn't cross Ron's mind that he was only let in to the Manor to talk to Hermione and not Harry as he turns toward the west wing.

As he draws near to the bedroom door, Ron wonders if Malfoy is in the room with Harry. Apparently Malfoy is supposed to be helping Harry recover. Ron shudders; he does not want to face Malfoy right now.

Ron peeks into the bedroom, quickly checking to see who is there. He sees a form lying on Harry's bed, its chest rising and falling slowly. The only other thing in the room is the arm chair, and the drawn curtains and slowly rising sun cause its shadow to stretch all the way to the entrance. Ron slips in, carefully closing the door behind him. The form on the bed promptly tosses, and Ron now sees that it's Harry. He's strapped to the bed like he had been when Ron had last seen him.

"Hey there, Harry." Ron says quietly as he takes cautious steps. Harry stares up at him as Ron crouches down. Ron begins undoing the straps that tie Harry to the bed.

"I wanted to see you, Harry. I wanted to talk to you and ask you something." Ron takes Harry's hand in one of his. He places his other hand on Harry's shoulder and then his back and helps him sit up. Ron swings Harry's legs over the side of the bed and joins him.

Ron squeezes Harry's hand, trying to catch his attention as Harry's eyes begin wandering around the room. "Do you hear me, Harry?" Ron whispers, staring intently into Harry's eyes as Harry's vision finally focuses on him. Ron gives him a small smile. Harry's eyes seem lighter, as if they recognize Ron, and it gives him the confidence to continue.

"Do you remember me, Harry? I'm your best mate, Ron. Ron Weasley." Harry continues to stare at Ron, and Ron carries on.

"You've been gone a long time, Harry. It seems like it was a whole different lifetime when you were with us." Ron smiles as Harry cocks his head. "But we're glad you're back, you know. All of us are. Hermione and me and… Malfoy. We're all glad. No one else knows yet, and right now we're keeping you at Malfoy's house instead of at the Ministry. Can you imagine that? Malfoy's house; I bet you never thought we'd end up here. Hell, I never did either.

"Mum is worried about you. She keeps wanting to know how you're doing, if you're improving at all. Ginny doesn't know what to do but cry every time I mention you back at the Burrow. I think she feels hopeless because she doesn't know if she should be happy that you're back or sad that you're not well."

Ron is losing Harry's attention, and Harry begins murmuring to himself, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Ron feels himself panic, knowing that he has been rambling and that he needs to keep some sort of communication going with Harry. He knows it's useless hoping that Harry will respond, but if he can keep eye contact with Harry, it will reassure him that Harry at least acknowledges Ron's presence. Maybe Harry can hear Ron, even if he doesn't say anything.

Ron shakes Harry's shoulder, but it does not affect him. Ron snaps his fingers, but Harry doesn't notice. Ron feels the bubbles of panic rise from his stomach and into his throat. He tries grabbing Harry's chin and forcing Harry to look toward Ron, but Harry's eyes wander. Ron thinks back to how he had first caught Harry's attention. He gazes at Harry and then down at his lap, feeling forlorn. He squeezes Harry's hand, hoping that it will comfort himself.

It takes a moment for Ron to realize that Harry's mumbling has stopped, and that he's looking at Ron.

Excited, Ron starts up again, squeezing Harry's hand repeatedly. He hopes it will keep Harry focused long enough for him to ask his question.

"Harry, I need you to remember. You need to remember the night before you left Hogwarts, when you told me something. You told me to never let them know what I know. I've done what you've told me to do Harry, but now I need to tell them. I need Hermione to trust me again. I need her to want to come home, and the only way I can do that is to get rid of all our secrets and to stop doing the things she hates. But I need to stop being angry first, and I need to get this out of the way."

Harry's looking away again, and Ron squeezes his hand desperately. His voice rises in pitch as he speaks even faster than before.

"Harry, I know you were with Malfoy. Hermione knows you were with Malfoy, but she doesn't know that I know. I want to tell both her and Malfoy that I know, Harry, but I need you to let me." Ron shakes Harry's shoulder again as Harry begins humming softly. "Harry, please listen! Please let me tell them!"

Ron wishes that Harry would look at him now. Even if Harry cannot speak to him, he knows that if Harry were to look him in the eye, it would mean Ron has Harry's permission. Ron forces all his will power into his grip on Harry's hand, hoping that it will make Harry gaze at him.

But Harry doesn't turn toward Ron again. He continues to gawk at the ceiling.

Ron stares at his friend in silent horror. He knows things don't usually and probably never turn out the way he wants. But if he could have this one thing, he reasons, then his life would be perfect. Because once Ron gets Harry's permission, he plans on putting his life back in order.

He doesn't know if it's perfect or awful timing that permits Hermione to storm into the room at that moment.

She does not march in as fast as he would have imagined. Ron frowns as his wife nears, and she holds a hand to her head. But Ron knows better than to sit comfortably, because by the look on Hermione's face he knows he shouldn't be sitting here at all.

"Ronald Weasley! What do you think you're doing?"

Ron does not stand to face his wife. Nor does he let go of Harry's hand as he looks up at Hermione.

"I'm talking to Harry, Hermione."

"I can see that!" Hermione's nostril's flare as she points an accusing finger at Ron. "Toti said you were here to see me, Ron – you're not allowed to be here with Harry."

"But Hermione," Ron says, exasperation evident in his voice, "I need Harry to understand me, and –"

"He doesn't understand anyone!" Hermione shrieks.

Ron wonders why Hermione is up tight, but persists. "That's not what you said last week, Hermione. Just because the therapy and the lessons and the medicine doesn't work doesn't mean that we can't find something to help him. Or do you no longer have faith in him?"

"This is not a matter of faith, Ron. This is about what Harry wants."

"And how do you know what Harry wants?" Ron bellows, now standing to confront his wife. "What if he's been who-knows-where for ten years, waiting for us to find him and help him, only to realize that we aren't coming? What if he's been trying to speak to us all this time but realizes that he can't?"

"And what if Harry wants to be alone, Ron? What if Harry doesn't want to be apart of the world any more because he knows people like you would will run to him and need him and use him and not leave him be?"

Hermione's face is red in anger. Her hair is disheveled and her chest rises and falls quickly. Ron can see Hermione's frustration with him in her eyes; they are narrowed and sharp, sparkling in her rising fury.

Ron feels himself sit down, feeling leaden and weary. How dare Hermione think that Ron would use Harry? Ron is not selfish like that, and he respects Harry; he could never use him. He only wants to fix things right now. He wants to help Harry get better, but also make amends with his wife. Is that being selfish? Is that using Harry?

Hermione looks at the floor, away from where Ron is sitting. He wonders if she is ashamed of what she has just said. It's possible, he decides, seeing that Hermione is biting her lip. That or she could be choosing her next words.

"Ron," Hermione begins, her voice no longer at a crescendo, "I don't want to fight; we've done enough fighting over the past ten years. We don't need to fight over Harry, because he's here. We shouldn't fight about anything, because we should accept each other and our choices." Hermione sighs and moves toward Ron, sitting on the floor in front of him and Harry. She hesitates before taking Ron's hand, and Ron suddenly feels a warm spark shoot up from his finger tips. The contact is warm and he cannot help but relax as Hermione begins to draw circles on his palm with her index finger.

"I want things to work, Ron. But we both need to help each other, and we need to work harder at being more conscious of the other person's needs."

"I know, Hermione." Ron says quickly, fearing that he might not get another chance to speak. "I want to work harder, and I want to help you. But I need you to be at home with me, because home feels so empty when you aren't there. And that's why I need to talk to Harry, why I need him to understand, because there are things I want to tell you but I can't do that without his permission."

Hermione stops concentrating on Ron's hand and instead looks up at him. Her eyes are sad and confused.

"Why must you have his permission, Ron?"

Ron grips Hermione's hand. He glances at Harry, who is still absorbed in the walls. He tightens his grip on Harry's hand as well.

"Because I swore to him that I wouldn't say anything."

Hermione tries to say something, but she's cut off. Another hand is grabbing her free one, and Ron turns in surprise to see that it's Harry. He is staring straight at Hermione, and Ron does not know what to do. Their connected hands create a triangle and Ron looks from his wife to his friend and wonders what they're doing. Hermione is wide-eyed and her gaze does not shift from Harry's. Ron thinks she is not only shocked, but afraid. She is shaking, her skin is ghost white and her mouth forms a small 'o'. Bewilderment causes Ron to speak.

But before he can, Harry smiles. His muscles twitch and curve and his eyes dance. Ron can't help but think of children dancing around a fire as he stares, captivated, at Harry. Ron turns to Hermione to see that she's still shaking, and that she's trying to pull away from Harry's grip. Ron wants to know what's going on.

"What is it, Harry?" He hears himself ask.

Harry's hand lets go of Hermione's and she shifts away from Harry and closer to Ron. But Harry's hand moves to Hermione's stomach, and his eyes shift from hers and down toward her abdomen. Hermione sits, immobile, and stares up at Ron, who stares back down at her.

Ron doesn't know what to think. All this is curious, and he knows it has meaning behind it. His head is fluttering with ideas, all like stray butterflies waiting to be caught and examined.

He doesn't know what to make of Harry, as his friend begins to laugh. He didn't know Harry could laugh. But his friend sits there, his voice loud and clear. The sound causes Ron to stir, his face flushing from it. His finger tips feel warm again, like when Hermione had been holding his hand. It's merry, Ron realizes; Harry laughs out of joy.

Ron looks down at Hermione's abdomen, where Harry's hand still lies. He looks up at Hermione, her eyes fearful, and he realizes. He thinks he knows why Hermione's scared, because there's something that she needs to tell him and she doesn't know how he'll feel.

"Is there something," Ron says, waiting for Harry's laughter to die down, "that you need to say?"

Hermione nods once, closing her eyes as if in pain. Ron squeezes her hand, but she withdraws it from his grasp. She takes several slow breaths before she speaks.

"We're going to have a child, Ron."

Ron doesn't know what to say, but he knows what he's feeling. There's an explosion within him, and he feels it all build up and it's warm like chocolate sliding down his throat and it burns like when he sits too close to the fire. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he feels himself on the ground, on his knees, and he can feel Hermione pressing against him, pushing away. But he holds on desperately, and there's relief when he embraces her like ice on a sting and all he can smell is mint, and all he can see is hair, and slowly she embraces him as well.

"Merlin, I love you, Hermione," he hears over and over again in his head, and its echo is louder and clearer as he hears himself whisper it. Hermione's hands tighten into fists in his robes and Ron feels her tremble and he doesn't know why but he's grateful that he's there to hold her and support her.

And he swears to himself, as fiercely as his heart allows, that from now on he will be here everyday to give this to Hermione.


	10. Resipiscence: Part 1

A/N: This is the first part of the last story! It's been two years, but I'm going to start posting it. Hopefully people will read. Enjoy!

There are muggle television screens in the air. They have no body, no plastic. Screens without dimensions, they flicker and they blink. One shows a boy; a man; a man-boy. A man-boy, running running running into woods and across fields and into air and into nothing. Running running running. And there's no life anywhere but his life, but it's draining and becoming like the fields and air he runs through. Desolate. Forgotten.

There's another screen and the man-boy in it shields his face and guards his mind but it's hopeless. It's coming and it's spiraling through and down and into him. And his black hair is matted and he's lost proper vision and his eyes no longer see in front of him, because all he sees is nothing. Nothing, nothing. And guilt.

_And it's not my guilt. It's not my guilt and not my fault and Merlin everything is closing in on me. It's not my guilt, the people don't scream for fear of me, not me. Not me. It's not my guilt. It's not my guilt. It's not my fault. It's not my guilt._

And he stuffs his ears with dirt and grass and anything that will block them but he still hears the screaming and the terror and the blood. The blood, the blood that became rivers and pools that day, so many swam through and they fell asleep in them because of one spell. And they wouldn't wake up.

_Wake up, wake up, wake up up up up, wake up. No, don't fall asleep, don't fall, no sleep, sleep, don't sleep, don't fall. Please, please, please. It's wrong, this is wrong, it never should have happened. I tried, I tried, I thought I won. I thought I made it right. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry. Don't fall asleep. It's not my guilt. It's his, and he's swimming with you and you are all sleeping. No. No. Don't sleep, I can't sleep. No, no. _

There are screens filled with pools. Screens that scream with the noise and the horror. Millions of screens stacked upon millions of screens, all with pools. All with the pools the man-boy fears, dreads, watches them fall into. And they're all there, lying in the pools, the rivers, the waterfalls and he's running. Running, running.

One screen is invisible. It seems invisible, because it only shows the world the man-boy sees, the one that's ever changing. It's colors and there's no horizon and no vertical point and it's all moving, waves of malleable world that shift and twist around to become everything. But everything is only the color and the screens. And the shrieks and things in the screens.

He knows, for certain, that there's one screen somewhere, somehow, that's of the man-boy before he became a man-boy, before the shrill cries. And he was only a boy, and there was water on his back and in his eyes. And in his eyes he could see, could feel another boy, another boy he touched and felt and –

"_You're mine."  
_

Maybe there are other screens before that one, that one that's different, and the man-boy is certain there are others… He just doesn't remember.

But he does remember that the world hasn't been color for forever, that it was but then it wasn't, and it was fading, disappearing, over-powered by the screaming. But the color suddenly bled in again, after so long, and he doesn't know why. But he does know that new screens came with the color, new screens, and he doesn't know how they got there, how they keep appearing in larger numbers, but he knows that they do.

_White screens. Screens of white. And glass. Where in the world, where am I?_

With the color he's positive there came a numbing, a chilling, a comfortable sense that was familiar but not. It was different from his forever in monotone. And when the color came and the numbing there, he would have jumped and whooped with excitement, but he couldn't move, he can't move. He can't move his eyes from the screens, but if he could he would look down and he's convinced there wouldn't be a body there if he tried finding one. And he can't move nor see his hands, so he's sure that they're not there either. But he sees his hands, body, him in the screens, the ones he can't look away from, so he never looks down.

A new screen appears. With the color it comes, and he can see, see so clearly. Eyes. He can see eyes the color of the monotone his world once was, and the man-boy can only stare. And the world stops, and the colors don't move, and the chilling numb comes back with those eyes. Things are tinted, tinting, tainting, tainted green. The man-boy gawks. And there is no screaming.

_No screaming. Gone. Screaming gone. Those, those eyes, everything's green but those eyes…_

And then the screen disappears.

_No, no, no no no. Screaming. Screaming. No, no screaming, it was gone, gone. It shouldn't be back. It was gone. The eyes made it go away. Those eyes, I know those eyes. They make everything go away. No, stop, stop. Stop screaming, I can't. I can't do anything. Can't help, heal, can't do anything. Stop, stop. I told you, told you stop. Told you it's not my guilt, not mine. Please stop. Stop, please, please stop. _

The screens don't not blink. The screaming never stops.

New ones appear, new screens, but they only flicker and there's nothing in them but words. Words. And they shut off the screaming and resound, round around and round. There's no understanding, no use understanding, but it continues and the words stop the screaming when they're there.

And the eyes; the eyes belong to that voice, the man-boy knows, but he doesn't know how he knows. But there's only the voice and there are no eyes, and eventually the voice fades and the screaming comes back.

There are bed straps in the screen. A new screen. And the screaming gets louder and louder. The bed straps fall, away, and then there's a hallway and the hallway moves toward and away and then there's someone, someone, a someone with eyes. And the screaming, it's awakening everything and the screens with the pools are flooding the others, ruining, spoiling them all.

But those eyes. They're not monotone, but muddy. They're not monotone, but they could be, they are, but they're not. And the screaming continues but the world stops moving, and the eyes are in the man-boys arms.

_I don't understand, why, why is the world stopped but the screaming not. Why, why? Eyes, those eyes aren't right but they are and I don't understand, don't understand at all. They should fit, should be right, but they aren't, they don't belong, but they have to. I don't know, why, why, why don't I know?_

The pools begin to invade the screen, staining it, but the man-boy holds onto the eyes and he won't let go, never let go.

_Why, tell me why you don't fit? Why, why isn't there the voice, why aren't the screams stopped? Why do you not fit but do? Why, tell me, why, why, make me understand. Don't leave me, no, don't leave me, make me understand._

Green, the screen turns green. The eyes fall closed and then are gone. And the world moves and the colors with it and there's a rage and betrayal that joins the screaming and they shriek together, entwined. And everything's moving, moving, swirling, twisting, molding –

_Everything is too quick, moving too quick. Too many screens, I don't know what's going on, I'm lost, gone, lost and I don't know where I am. I've never known, never known, but now I know I don't know –_

And then it stops.

There's a deathly silence, and the screams fall into the pools with those who won't wake up, and the colors are stopped and the eyes… The eyes are _right_ and monotone and get closer and closer. And there's a hand and the eyes are open and they stare, only ever stare, and they're closer and closer and nothing moves, sounds, breathes, only feels and it feels like there should be water spraying onto his back and–

"_Mine."_

There's a new screen, a flickering screen, with only words, but he can't hear them, because there's another screen, and there's a woman, a bottle of pent up energy and she's red and dark and raging and he unstops her and she's falling, falling, falling and draining pouring emptying…

And the screen turns green.

The colors, the world, the everything turns green.

And there's that screen, the one before with only words, and he can't understand, but the man-boy tries, tries…

But there's a screen, a red screen, a new screen, and the man-boy is there. With him is a man, a red man. And the man-boy tries to remember where he's seen the red man before. With them is a woman, the bottle woman, but there's no red, no dark, no raging. Now in her base is a light, a gold light, and it grows and grows and swells and it tickles the man-boy's eyes.

And he laughs. And there's no screaming, no sound but laughing, good laughing, but there are screens and screens and new screens and it's all moving so fast, too fast, and, and –

There are muggle television screens in the air. They have no body, no plastic. Screens without dimensions, they flicker and they blink. One shows a boy; a man; a man-boy. And he's listening to something he can't understand, shouldn't understand, that he didn't understand before, not until his world turned green, and what he hears now will echo and forever keep the screaming stopped.

"_Harry…Harry…Harry…"_

And he knows that voice. It belongs to the eyes, the ones that stop everything and remind him of showers. But he doesn't recall whose they are.


	11. Resipiscence: Part 2

A/N: Sorry this one is short I'll be sure to have the next part up tomorrow!

Down the hall now. There's a persistent clicking as I stride. It's the sound of authority, the sharp sound of heels on stone floor. Striding, storming. There's no time to pause, no time for the sound to be muffled. Quiet be damned. If Rene wakes, then Wilone will take care of it. There's authority here, in my hands, eyes, my feet, and if it wants to stir the dead with its noise, then I refuse to stop it.

It was once the sound of my father – a prelude to his imminent arrival. It was the sound of him angry, of him controlling, of his power. Wherever, whenever – this sound was his. It was the last sound he ever made before I killed him. Before I killed him so immediately, barely allowing the betrayal to cross his face. Before his nose was in the ground. Before the echoes of his footsteps faded.

I wanted him to die thinking he was powerful, and then with a sudden realization know he was not.

I didn't even let him beg for mercy.

Because Malfoy's do not beg for mercy.

The sound is now my sound. And in the wake of it wizards and creatures alike should fear me, as I once feared my father. As all should fear a Malfoy.

But there is no one in these halls, in the corridors that I stride down. There is no one here to fear me. And what is authority when there is no one around to control?

And even then, even when I am around people, or people are around me, I no longer have a grasp of control. I mean, _you_ – you're a lunatic and I don't have the power to keep you strapped to your bed. I can't say no to Hermione, and kick you out. I'm not even powerful enough to keep the Weasel out of my own house anymore.

Weak.

"Master?"

A house elf. Toti, I think. I thought I left it behind in my chambers after it notified me of Weasley's intrusion upon my home.

I do not pause, but continue to stride and allow it to struggle behind me.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Wealsey says he's come to see Miss, sir, but he didn't go to her chambers."

"And where did he go when he didn't go to her chambers?"

"To Master Harry's chamber, sir."

Damn him.

"Thank you, Toti. That will be all."

Who does that Weasel think he is, coming into my house? And without invitation. I would bet my entire fortune he didn't even come with Hermione in tow. He's just here to see you, to steal you, and I won't let him do that.

Where is Hermione, anyway? I remember the study, and…

Wilone isn't here anymore.

The noise in the hall stops. There's a tapestry in front of me, and more, more are lined up along the hallway. Rugs, one with a loose string. The house elves will be punished for not taking care of them properly. Lights, filling the hall. Vases, portraits, crystal and glass. Everything I can see but my mind… My mind…

Wilone's not here.

My fist slams against the wall, and my nails, they wait for the satisfaction of biting into the stone. But they bleed, and they hammer the wall again and again and the blood lashes out. My order, my order – what happened to it? What happened today? There was the study, Wilone dismissed, Hermione on the ground, Rene crying…. And you, and you in the doorway. And then in your bed, you wouldn't stay down, but that was after Weasley came in, and –

He's here. I need to get him away from you. He'll take you and that's not allowed; you're my responsibility.

Responsibility? I'm taking this all too seriously now.

I rub my temples with the tips of my fingers. They're ice against the fire of activity in my head. I'm numb but filled with a raging that I can't place. I need to find order of some sort, otherwise I'll lose myself completely. I don't know, don't care where I'm coming from, only where I'm going.

I must get there now.

The clicking, the ticking of heels begins again against the stone, then rug. I try to build a momentum, build up the authority again. Try to feel it in my toes, in my knees; imagine my father, as he used to be in all his distorted, false glory. And I'm there, I'm there, watching, imitating, I feel it growing, swelling, bursting –

"Draco!"

And deflate.

Turning sharply around, I see not Weasley, but Hermione. She waves briefly at me.

I, in my concentration, passed your room without even realizing it.

_That's what happens when you take your mind off your goal, boy._

I resist shaking my head of my father's voice, letting it ring. Instead of dying it grows louder with every reverberation, and I struggle to stalk straight toward Hermione. I'm feeling weaker, but my fingers, my arms, my legs stay taut, forcing myself to stay tall. I see myself reaching for Hermione's arm, but she's laughing, her eyes are closed. Around the noise in my head, I know this is wrong – Hermione doesn't chortle, doesn't smile and hold her stomach in glee as if she had been hit a weak combination of _Rictusempra_ and the Cheering Charm. But there she is; pulling Weasley with her as she side-steps me. My fingers are closing on air, and I – stop. And I hear them walking down the hall, talking softly, and I can picture them affectionately, _lovingly_, holding hands.

Disgusting.

Now they're gone, gone before I can do anything about Weasley's intrusion. And there is a sinking, piercing feeling in my gut, as if your friends have stabbed me with a sharp spoon, using it to shovel out small chunks of precious organs one small piece at a time. My life those pieces hold are being replaced with growing, scathing clumps of misery and jealousy. It's deathly cold, and if I didn't know better I would have thought I was reliving my visit to Father in Azkaban again.

I feel completely, mortifyingly, absolutely, undeniably – alone.

Wilone and Rene have left. Hermione has gone happily with her husband. And I – I am left in their wake, with my father's infamous words dying inside me. Swirling down like an unhappy ending. A fish in a toilet bowl. A quail beneath the wheels of a carriage.

And I listen to the silence of the tapestries, of the lights, the sleeping portraits, vases.

But then, a creak.

The sound. The sound is bedsprings. And now, with the agonizing pain violently pulsing in my gut, I slowly make my way toward your door. It's ajar, and through it I see your shadow – it can only be your shadow – moving against the half light of night that serves as your backdrop. I know, there, sit your hard eyes, your boney fingers, knuckles, your mouth; all creating You. A masterpiece of madness.

Behind you, the stars, like faint eyes, are falling closed out in the distance, beginning to vanish. The night is no longer really night. It borders on the edge of day, dawn, and it's stuck there. On a see-saw, a balance, tipping from one side to the other and back again. It can't make up its mind.

And it seems, neither can I. I do not know whether I should stay, or go. But my body seems to have made up my mind for me; like the night I betrayed, I killed my father. What I thought or felt didn't seem to matter.

As I weakly, foolishly, step in, my body lured by you and your chaos, I know you see me.

And you moan.


	12. Resipiscence: Part 3

There is a screen in the air. And in it, eyes watch; fearful, dull eyes. Eyes like slate, suddenly arousing a vibrant burst of color and calm, snuffing the screams in the man-boy's head. A moan sounds, and as it echoes the screen swells, filling the man-boy's vision. The eyes, encased in shadow and light, flicker, and shake. They are, very nearly, nearly almost, like the piercing ones, the eyes he felt in showers and cold tile. The eyes, with a voice, that say his name.

The man-boy; he stands. And slowly, he watches as his joints straighten. There is a darkness that shrouds, that surrounds him. If he was not trapped behind the screen, he would be suffocating. The eyes falter with every step he takes. The man-boy, he grows, and before him the walls bleed. The plants darken, droop, wither, seeping a green into the stone, and it flows in rivers. The screen is tainted dark green, like a forest at twilight, and the curtains fall soundlessly behind him as the windows creep open. Slow currents of energy are slinking, slipping, sliding into the room. There is, he hears, an early song-bird on the railing outside the window, and gradually its song fades, the notes and the melody losing pace, losing pitch.

And plummets, to stone and sleep.

The eyes watch, ever watching, and do not blink.

Suddenly an old screen, cracked and fading, invades the man-boy's vision. Its edges are dull, chipped, and the picture within distorted. But in it, clearly, the same eyes watch. And the man-boy listens as a voice close to him cackles, close to him sneers;

"_That's what happens when you take your mind off your goal, boy."_

It is deep, and it is mocking, and he watches as a lone figure stalks down a hall, as the lone figure turns its head briefly and faces the eyes. And the eyes, they are shaking, they are dull, and in a flash of green light, the lone figure slumps mid-step, its face lost in bleak betrayal.

The eyes watch, ever watching, and do not blink.

"_Are you happy?"_ The eyes are flooding. They waver as they move farther from him, from the figure on the floor._ "My father's dead. I killed him."_

The world, now red, blurs. Laughter, bubbles, bellows, bursts in and through him, and the man-boy is shriveling inside. The laughter, malevolent laughter, like a foreign virus, controls itself, controls its host, and as the eyes turn and flee the man-boy's mind is dying, entrapped in screens and preserved with memories as his body flees.

But the laughter, and the screams in the screens, follow.

The aged screen disappears. And in its place the eyes are staring, staggering forward. The green that seeps from the walls, the plants, the bird, and now the eyes, is thicker than blood, and the eyes are closing, falling to the ground.

But the man-boy's starting forward, and he sees his limbs; they are moving of their own accord and catch the eyes. And there's a spark, a jolt of a curse, like muggle electricity, that runs through his arms as they come into contact with the eye's… arms. The limbs and the folds of fabric, soft and slick against him. And there is something in him, something that is starting and moving, twitching. And now he knows, and he remembers.

The body, the _boy_ with the eyes shudders as he whispers,

"_Dr-draco_."


	13. Resipiscence: Part 4

I am alone, and in front of me there is a hall of tile, ever and forever ongoing, it seems. And walls, sectioning off areas of the hall; maybe like shower stalls. I walk down a few paces, and listen. There is no echoing of footsteps, but drops. Slow, clear drops that fall into thick puddles, or pools. Steam and noises rise from a stall a few paces away, but as I move toward it, I hear something slump to the floor behind me. Like something lifeless. I know the sound well enough; I've killed before. It's the sound of hopeless finality at its utmost as it falls to hollowness. I turn to find Hermione on a rug, like one from the Manor, and slightly green. Not green, as if she was sick, but green… luminescent green. And down the tile hall, you appear; but somehow, you have always been there, slick in sweat and steam. And you are stalking toward me.

Suddenly, green steam floods from faucets in the stalls. I try to step back, step away from being blinded, from your advancing footsteps that sound like drops. But by some unknown force, I am pulled toward you unwillingly, and your name is escaping from me. It's being punched out of me, squeezed out of me as my ribs are pushed further and further into my lungs, piercing them like a cold, dry frost. And as I say it, my throat is thick and crackles.

"_Harry, Harry."_

I grab my neck in rage, in horror, fear, and my lungs are quickly reduced to nothing. I feel my forehead crease and my eyes grow wider, larger as I struggle for air. Sinister green spots are appearing before me, running in circles around me, twisting menacingly around and in and through me. There are no more drops, I notice, as I fall to my knees. But I hear the song of a song-bird die, and I feel the plants wilting, and now, I am falling. And I know, soon, I will sink to utter hollowness, utter despair, too.

But as I fall, feel the steam puff past me, up and up past me, puffing, I hear – you. I hear you. And it's worse than the tile that will break me, break my fall.

"_Dr-draco."_

I start awake, my eyes snapping open, and instantly feel the cool cotton sheets on top of me, hear wind rustling through the trees and the sun filtering though a sliver of an opening between the curtains. My head… hurts. It pounds repeatedly, like a woodpecker in my skull, trying desperately to get out. It is too heavy to carry, my neck too weak, and so I let my eyes wander about the room.

Morning. A normal morning, or as normal as a Manor morning can be. The curtains are drawn, the wall hangings straight, the plants – dead. I blink, but before I can think any more on it, I am shuddering. I am freezing, clammy; awoken because of an unusual dream. They've became oddly persistent since you've arrived here. I guess my conscience doesn't deem me worthy of proper sleep any more.

Maybe it's not a terribly normal morning after all.

Dreams; terrifying, indiscernible dreams. No one, in their right mind, ought to have such dreams. I am an unfortunate exception. But there was a time when you were, too. But for you, we all knew it was your connection to the Dark Lord that caused them. You couldn't keep him out of you, couldn't block him, and every night you watched people die, watched them look at you in horror, in pain, in agony, and you killed them. It was your hand, the hand of the madman you were tied to, and their blood on his hands was like blood on yours.

I watched you, most nights. As you lied there, tossing, turning, tumbling off the bed and retching. But you'd never wake up, and I, for fear of you drowning in your own vomit, fell after you, held you, got my hands dirty like no other Malfoy would. I shamed my family every night, rocking you like a baby, and unbeknownst to you I would kiss your eyelids, stroke your nose like my mother used to do to me. And eventually, painstakingly slowly, you would mumble, you would moan, and you would finally sleep peacefully. Within the stone walls of Hogwarts, under the noses of everyone we knew, I held you, murmured to you. In the absence, the death of my own mother, all I knew to do was to return her love to someone who needed it like I did. And I despised you, hated you, shrunk away from touching you, but you needed me. You told me so yourself. You needed me. And I needed to be needed.

I was – helpless. I loathed it.

How did it start, this tangle, this mess I got myself into? Was it finding you in the bathroom, screaming? No, I did not pity you then. It was your flying, into the clouds where there was little air, only to fall to the ground, blue and broken. Someone had to save you. I had just arrived from my mother's funeral, and I heard her, as clearly as if she had been behind me, and she told me to save you.

What could I do? I would sooner die, rather than betray my mother.

So in the grass, I found myself tugging and dragging you, swearing I would kill you if you died. And that day, I saved you. But when you thanked me, weeks later, I stared at your cursed, wretched, unkempt hair. And I turned and walked away.

I saved you that day for my mother. So that my mother would be avenged, and not live in a world of grey smog, floating through brick and stone. I saved you to save my mother.

But in my need, my loss, I lost myself in your need, and in your loss. That was the only way I seemed capable of living.

I think I learned to love you, but I mentally choke on the word. But you left me, broken and in pain, and I have dreamt of you every night since you left me. I have wanted you back, have lost myself in my pain and desire. But now that you're back, I feel my old pride, old habits come back to me, and I want to get away from you.

I feel tired – extraordinarily tired, as if I've not slept at all. It's like one of those mornings where I've been reading a case all night, planning and re-planning what needs to happen the next day – to the extent that I forget sleep is actually necessary. In fact, I don't even remember going to bed, let alone changing out of my clothes.

That is when I realize that my hip is unnaturally warm. That something lies there. And with my realization, that something begins moving, tracing circles and patterns into my skin, onto my bones; as if, by my recognizing it, it has sprung to life. I stiffen, my thoughts and my limbs turning to stone and falling heavily into the sheets. I wish, with growing terror, that I could sink into the mattress and bury myself, wish my trembling heart would stop. My insides are frozen and pierced with the icicles forming in my blood.

I wish I had not woken up. Because I know I am supposed to be alone.

If, by some sick chance, it was a house elf next to me, I might have the life left in me to laugh. Or to hex it to hell and back. But I can feel the springs in my back, and beside me, and the weight pressing on them is far too big. Bigger than an elf, longer than Rene, and far heavier than Wilone; there is someone in my bed and I wish with all my soul it is someone I do not know.

But I am certain – as simply as I am certain the curtains in this room are not mine – that you are lying beside me.

I try to move my head toward you, but my heart shudders and my neck is stiff. My eyes move instead, and if I had still been breathing, my lungs would have stopped functioning immediately. You're closer to me than I thought, and faintly, I feel your breath sweep across my face. Your eyes are bright and focused, lucid, and like green sparks they dance. They are rough and frightening, scraping past and through every inch of me, collecting everything that I am, that you can see. I feel raw, exposed, vulnerable, helpless. But I cannot move, and I cannot leave.

Your fingers are still moving, and my gaze shifts downward. You're not dressed, but your legs are wrapped and twisted in the sheets. Your hair, your scarred body – your entire appearance looks as if a hurricane has passed through you, as if you lied on your side and festered like a bad splinter all night. And I, with sheets lying calmly on top of me, am seemingly untouched.

Without warning, your nose is near my hair, smelling it, tasting it. And your mouth by my ear, shakily;

"_Draco_."

I cannot think, but feel my heart thunder in my chest and my mind shrivel and shake. Of their own accord, my eyes are closing and my neck arching. My stone-like limbs are yielding, melting into the soft sheets in the wake of your breath, of your fingers. I try to resist, try desperately, but with every movement, they are intense, frightening, forcing me to _let go_. I cannot help but feel these fingers, light and lulling, hypnotizing and taking advantage of every vulnerable feeling, every secret fear that exists in me. You scare me, every fiber of my being shaking uncontrollably, but you are warm, your hands inviting.

In your presence, I quiver and dread. It is almost familiar in an unwanted way, the feelings uncannily like those I experienced around my father. But by the pain in the small of my back, and in the warm flush of my chest, I know you are different, that somewhere in you, you are sane. And I know that, as surely as you are capable of saying my name, you need me. I want to give in to you, let you make me feel like you used to make me feel. My stomach is knotting and my throat collapses, my head is lolling to the side. I could not possibly move now, not when you're touching me. I am helpless to you; so awfully helpless.

Like a prayer, your finger tip touches my eyelids, slides down my nose, and I gasp slightly.

I will give in to you; if only because I need to be needed.


	14. Resipiscence: Part 5

"Toti!"

Hermione is standing in the doorway of Draco's London flat. The sitting room appears untouched, no object on the mantel piece of the fireplace or the end tables moved or altered in anyway. Although the elves are obviously impeccable at their job, she wishes that there was some sign of them actually being there to keep things in order. That way, she would have the chance to speak to one.

Cautiously, Hermione enters the room, one foot slowly following the other. No elf appears to greet her or take her coat, which mystifies her. No matter how much she has trained the elves to not greet her in the past, one of them always managed to – usually Toti – if only to make her feel welcome at the flat. Normally, she would be ecstatic to know that her efforts have actually proven fruitful, but at this precise moment, under these circumstances, it scares her.

Edgy and uncomfortable, Hermione hollers for Toti again. It takes energy, too much, to make such an awful sound. She prefers to not yell at the elves, especially Toti, but she can't stand being in this flat. It reminds her of times when she was angry, loathing toward Ron. She doesn't want to feel that way anymore. She tries once more, the elf's name weakly passing her lips, almost like an aching sigh.

No reply.

Hermione groans now, wringing her hands in frustration and warily sits on a black armchair, carefully perched on the edge of its seat. She looks around, seeing the familiar black velvet draperies, the crown molding, and the two-toned Victorian wallpaper; all simple elements that, when combined, scream status. Hermione, quite frankly, hates this room. It's all chrome, black and white and greys – the Wizarding world's sad attempt at a contemporary muggle room. It appears new age by color, but is too lush with traditional furniture and décor to actually qualify as anything 'contemporary.'

She doesn't understand why Draco hires wizard interior designers. They're too flamboyant, try too hard to be politically correct and blend two worlds that, in this particular way, cannot be put together. Despite her ideas and dreams for the Wizarding world, very little about it could ever match the modern muggle. She prefers the Wizarding world as it is, anyway; plush and comfortable. That's what makes it feel so much like home.

With stiff arms, Hermione pulls her wand from her cloak sleeve. She pauses to look at it before loosening her fingers and letting it land lightly against her chin. Her eyes wander about the room, briefly imagining herself on the lounge chair, staring into her cup and saucer; imagining herself through the doorway to the kitchen, crying against the stove. She can still taste the tears on her tongue, in her soup, and in her tea. Too many nights, too much grief was spent here in this flat, too close to be forgotten. Things are better at home, with Ron, and she feels a warmness swell in her gut and in her cheeks. But the bitterness still haunts her, looms in the walls and tea cups she stared at for so long. It will take time, she knows, before all this can be forgotten.

Hermione pushes herself up onto her weak legs, slowly straightening out. She's determined to get a hold of an elf, because she needs to talk to Draco. She looks around the room for it, that monstrous photo Ron took of her when they were first married, the one that Draco has hidden in this room to annoy her. Despite their friendship of sorts, he loves to find things and ways that get a rise out of her. Hermione thinks it makes him feel young again - like a bastard.

She nods. Yes, a bastard. A selfish, and irritatingly narcissistic one at that.

Turning, she finally spots the dreadful thing poking out from behind a vase on one of the book shelves. She makes her way toward it, and plucks it from its hiding place. Hermione snorts at herself, her sunbathing, sand covered self. Her hair's hidden in a ridiculously large straw hat and she's clad in a bright blue one-piece; her small hand is covering her face, and her toes wiggle dangerously close to the camera, almost in a vain attempt to knock it out of the photographer's hands. The life-size Hermione glances around the room, and then back to the picture in her hand – the only one that has any color in it – and throws it to the ground.

Instantly, there is a loud pop, and as Hermione turns around to face the elf, it squeaks.

"Miss, youse is not supposed to being here!"

Hermione ignores the comment, and tries to stand a little taller, look a little more imposing, intimidating to the elf.

"Toti, I must speak with Draco."

Toti shakes her head violently, inching away from Hermione and hiding behind the wooden leg of an end table.

"Master does not wants to be disturbed, Miss. Toti must chase owls away, he's not wanting to hear from his works, too.

"I know. I've been trying to owl and to fire call all week."

"Youse musn't try any more, Miss. Master will be very angry if youse is trying again; very, very angry. Toti will get her ears in the ovens again if youse do."

Hermione's eyes widen, and she feels clammy and sick. She drops to her knees to be eye level with the elf, giving up the act of being intimidating.

"Toti, he mustn't do that! He promised he wouldn't!"

Toti grabs her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. She whispers, skulking dangerously close to the couch, ready to cause lethal damage to her head. "Master's not being himself these past days, Miss. He's not been liking anything or any elf. We's all being too scared to do anything, now."

Hermione puts her hands on the ground, and although she's tempted, she doesn't crawl toward the elf in fear that Toti will start hurting herself if she did.

"Toti, I must speak with him. He hasn't been to the office in over a week, and no one knows how to get a hold of him anymore. Please, Toti, you must understand, I _must_ speak with him. I need to help him. I promise I won't let him hurt you or any of the other elves if you let me fire call him just once." The elf shakes her head again, and Hermione's afraid that it will fall off if she doesn't act quick. "Toti, I can help bring Draco back to himself, I'll make sure he's normal again – but you must let me speak with him. Please!"

Toti looks at her warily. "We's elves don't want to be hurting anymore."

Hermione nods. Toti looks behind her, then behind Hermione, and leans closer, being unnecessarily secretive. "I'll be opening a fire for youse, Miss. Wait until its green."

Smiling, Hermione thanks the elf and begins to stand. Toti watches her before trotting past. Bemused, Hermione turns.

"What are you doing, Toti?"

"Must fix the picture, Miss; it must have fallen when youse came in."

Hermione shakes her head silently, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, and turns to the fire to wait.

Sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, Hermione listens as the glass from the frame tinkles, falling back into place and repairing itself. Eventually, there is a small clicking sound, as the frame lands back on its designated space behind the vase on the shelf, and a pop as Toti Disapparates from the flat.

Hermione leans forward, her elbows resting against her knees to provide her upper body some support. She has not been able to speak to Draco since that day at the Manor not just because her time has been occupied with Ron. Draco hasn't been replying. Their office notified her of his absence some days ago; he had missed an important meeting, then an important trial, and many had already started questioning his authority. Hermione knows he will not like this, not like others doubting him, but he's apparently not been himself lately. Not showing up for work, not even letting her know he would be gone – something is wrong, and Hermione doesn't need three chances to guess the cause.

Maybe she was wrong to force Draco into taking Harry home. She knows Harry wouldn't have been helped at St. Mungos with the Ministry in charge, but she hadn't anticipated the fact that something might happen to Draco. She knows, deep down, Draco cares for Harry – and Harry would have wanted to be taken care of by Draco, or so she believes. But she cannot imagine what could possibly be happening to Draco.

For a time, she thought the worst; that something fatal might have happened to him. But as Toti has proven, Draco is indeed literally alive and kicking. This makes Hermione snort, and she shakes her head. It disappoints her, knowing that Draco is mistreating his house elves, and normally she would be livid. But he – and her gut seems to fall out of her into a deep, dark, never-ending well at this thought – is not himself. Something is happening, and she doesn't know what.

Quite suddenly, the fire in front of her grows larger, brighter, and definitely green, and as she looks up, there is a deafening scream.

"Which one of you blasted creatures put on the fire?!"

It is unmistakably Draco she hears, but there is no dignity or the usual elegance to his yelling. When angry, Draco usually whispers, dark and foreboding. This is not him.

Sticking her head into the fire as quickly as she can, Hermione is unable to brace herself for the blood rush the floo causes, and it travels swiftly from her fingers to collect in her head. Her eyes loll up and down as she tries to find some sort of balance and stability amidst her blood-filled haze. Her fingers and toes back at the Malfoy apartments clench and flex against the rough carpet, and she tilts her neck a little to try and relieve some of the stress that knots it.

When her vision returns, Hermione looks up, through the fireplace, and sees a bedroom. It is one of those at the Manor, with tall windows facing the east side and the four poster bed at the north end of the room. She doesn't know the room, at least not immediately – it's white, like many of the guest rooms, and the only color is the wood furnishings and the rug in front of her.

She doesn't see Draco at first, although she knows he must be there, somewhere.

Hesitantly, her voice suddenly very lost and nervous, Hermione whispers, "Draco?"

Slowly, a figure sits up in the bed, and it covers itself with a sheet, its face barely visible through the small gap in the fabric. It's hard to tell if it is Draco, as the bed feels like it's at least 25 meters away from her. Hermione strains to move her head further up, and she and the person in the bed stare at each other. She's half afraid that whoever is in the bed will decide to lie back down, and so she coughs a little, almost like Umbridge used to. She shudders at the thought, but it seems to have gotten the person's attention. Their head tilts, and after what feels like centuries, they climb out of the bed, and slowly make their way toward her.

Once she realizes that the person with the sheet is actually Draco, she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Draco, you don't know how hard it's been to get a hold of you."

Draco hesitates a little, one foot poised in front of him. He seems to croak a little as he coughs out her name.

"Weasley?"

"If, by that, you mean Hermione, then yes; it's me."

Swiftly, Draco turns away, and begins heading back toward the bed. Hermione panics.

"Draco, stop and listen to me!"

Although he stops, a frail white sheet barely touched by the sparse light that comes through the cracks in the curtains, he does not turn around. Hermione musters what strength she has left, attempting to put on her strong, commanding voice.

"I don't know what's happening, but you must come back to work."

She sounds positively weak.

In front of her, she hears Draco give a small, feeble laugh. "It'll take much more than that to drag me away from him." His head turns slightly toward her, and Hermione can see from his profile that he is sneering.

Bastard.

"Draco, there is something horribly wrong with you," she tries, and suddenly he is crouched in front of her, his face ghostly white and blotched with angry red spots on his cheeks. His eyes are dark and wide, the circles around his eyes purple, and he's snarling, barring his teeth at her, and he spits.

"_You_ – mudblood, scum of the earth – leave us alone. You know _nothing_." And he swipes at her, his hands like talons as he tries to claw her face through the fire. Startled, horrified, Hermione pulls back and scampers away as quickly as she can before putting the fire out with her wand. Her heart hammers in her chest and a ringing starts up in her ears, almost like the scream she hears in her head; her terrified, helpless scream that cannot escape her, but remains trapped within her.

Hermione knows she must get Draco out of there, but she doesn't know how. There must be some way to make him understand, but she knows how stubborn he is, how intolerably indifferent he can be when it comes to her opinion. But she needs to get him out of there; she must.

Falling onto her back, Hermione is out of breath and her mind is racing. The carpet presses into the back of her neck as she stares up at the grey ceiling, and her eyes sting. She thought she was through with crying, but obviously she was wrong.

There is something awful happening, she knows as she wipes at her face with the tough fabric of her cloak. And she fears that she is what caused it.


	15. Resipiscence: Part 6

Hermione's barking mad, he reckons, as she strides toward the gates that safeguard the Malfoy estate. He falls back, listening to the gravel as it crunches beneath his feet. She's been at it for weeks – flooing, owling – doing _everything_, just to talk to Malfoy. Just when he thought things where going to start getting better, she just can't get out of Malfoy's hair.

Ron stops and sighs, kicking a nearby pebble. They were _happy_, talking and laughing like better times. She even let him take a picture of her while they were out strolling the other day, her spirits were so high. But then the owl came from the firm, and she's been out all week, _sad_ all week. Like their reconciliation never even happened.

Damn that Malfoy, always ruining a good thing.

Ron huffs and crams his hands into his pockets. He watches as Hermione stops in front of the gate, arms stiff and locked against her sides. He shouldn't be angry or jealous, and he's trying not to be. He knows that it's important to be nice to Malfoy and check up on him and what not because he's Harry's keeper for the time being. If Ron had his way, and the money, he'd have Harry at their place. But he's not going to confront any one about it; he's sure of how Harry felt about Malfoy in the past. Maybe this is what he needs.

But Hermione's not moving now. He knits his brow; she just stands, still, her hair barely stirring in the breeze that starts up. She shouldn't be standing there – she should be walking through. She was so worked up a moment ago, how could she not be storming through now? A churning begins in Ron's stomach, making him nervous and agitated, and he begins walking as fast as he can toward his wife. He grabs her shoulder, and beneath his hand he feels her tension seeping, crawling through his fingers and into his wrist. Hermione does not move when he whispers her name.

"Just walk through, Hermione. That's the way the Malfoy gates have always been."

She blinks, and stares up at the gates.

"Its barriers are up."

Ron looks at her, the gate, and then back at her. "How are you sure?"

She shudders, "Can't you feel it?"

Ron begins shaking his head, but then stops. Something is… sighing. His head turns toward the gate, and within a moment he knows Hermione is right. What were once placid gates, allowing all visitors in, are now whispering, murmuring, He can feel breaths emitting from the wrought iron in front of him, heavy, prolonged and menacing breaths, and they envelop him.

"It's old magic," Hermione whispers.

Ron looks up at the Manor to glare at it. "He's not supposed to do that."

They're silent. And then, from the corner of his eye, he sees Hermione nod. It is slow, deliberate, and not the kind that acknowledges his presence or his words. It is the kind, he knows, that determines an action, that makes a decision in his wife's mind. It's the kind that he cannot dissuade her from. She knows what she needs to do.

As Hermione turns on her heel, walking as quickly as she can back to the Apparating point, Ron looks back at the Manor. Maybe it is his imagination, but he is sure that if he squints, he can see a figure in a tall window, looking back down at him.

Ron growls.

"Keep your promise, Malfoy. I don't want to regret leaving him with you."

With one last glare at the figure he is certain is Malfoy, Ron turns to follow after his wife.


	16. Resipiscence: Part 7

A/N: I have decided to post the rest. I have felt, both before posting and after several reviews, that going about posting this story one POV at a time would be risky. Unfortunately for you readers, I feel I've made the wrong decisioin by dragging it out. This is meant to be read in no less three parts, and barely more than that. But I've had complaints about it being too long. And so I've been conflicted, and I'm sorry if you all feel like this is going no where, and that there's no action. You're right; this is not an action fic. That's not the point. It's loss, uncertainty, and pain.

If you are disappointed, then I cannot help but say I'm sorry.

-----

I am mesmerized by the mirror. I don't know _why_; it's cracked and imperfect.

Imperfection is worthless.

At least I think it is. I never used the mirrors in this bathroom because they're all cracked, all broken. I only use the showers, because they're like the ones back in the Quidditch changing rooms at Hogwarts. I normally use the mirrors in my room or in my closet, and pass by these without any thought.

But tonight, they captivate me.

Maybe it is because of the way it dissects our bodies. An interesting menagerie of body parts and fragments, some repeated, others completely omitted, all sewn together haphazardly to create a monster of an image. It's hard to tell if there is one body or two, or if they're all the same. Some of the pieces are missing from the small mirror, leaving gapping wholes in our flesh.

Imperfection is incompletion.

In the reflection, I can see your back arch, and I am arching with you. There was a time when you were a prime example of imperfection, when everything I ever dreaded or feared was you. You were the cause of my every irritation, my every frustration, my every _weakness_.

You were the fly in my soup, the Howler on a Monday morning.

But I _need_ you, just like you always said you needed me. And this, this is perfection, this is everything I ever wanted. I can never leave you, for you have entrapped me, you make me feel like all the things I ever missed. I regret my uncertainty, regret my anger and my pain. I will leave it all – routine, order, my life – so long as you never leave me.

I gasp – suddenly, the nozzle is sharp against my back, and the shower head above me bleats wearily, the high-pressure water spewing nosily against the tiles and onto skin. I can feel every inch of you against me, and you are mumbling, words, words I can understand; things like _need_, and _want…_

But how do you know what they mean?

Your rough fingers scratching down my side stop my thoughts, and my knees are buckling, the only thing holding me up your weight against me. My eyelids are so heavy, and my palms are sliding down your wet back, your lips and teeth against my neck, and I can't, don't want to stop you.

But then your hand reaches back and turns off the water, your breathing warm and fast against my ear.

"_Quiet._"

And then I hear it.

"Draco Malfoy, by the order of the Ministry of Magic, you are charged to step out of the bathroom and return to the Ministry with the Aurors immediately!"

I can't open my eyes – I'm falling.

"Mister Malfoy, we know you're in there!"

There are footsteps down the hall.

"Mister Malfoy, step out of the bathroom, now!"

Help me breathe, Harry; help me.

"Draco?"

"Mrs. Weasley, you shouldn't be in here."

The floor is wet against my cheek.

"Draco?!"

You're growling.

"_Leave_."


	17. Resipiscence: Part 8

"Tell us how you did it, Hermione."

She glances at them skeptically. "Did what?"

"Get Malfoy out of his Manor."

She chooses to munch on her carrot sticks from her platter.

"Carn, Hermione."

"It's not like it's supposed to be some huge secret, is it?"

"We just want to know how smart you really are."

"Bugger off." And she bites into another carrot.

Unperturbed by her bout of hormones, her brother and sister-in-law shrug and back away to the couch behind them. Ron sits there, his face blank.

"You told the Ministry, didn't you?"

Ginny snorts and turns toward him. "What could they possibly do?"

"Send Aurors."

"Yes, but there's no chance of them knowing how to break those barriers. We all know Malfoys only let you in if you're wanted."

Ron shakes his head. "Malfoy's are supposed to leave their gates unprotected. The only barrier is the front door, which must acknowledge all visitors from the Ministry or those wishing to meet any of the people inside."

"And you know this because?"

"Because he was at Malfoy's trial with me." Hermione puts her plate down, and stares up at George. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Malfoy wasn't supposed to have those protection spells up, so you told the Ministry." Ron tilts his head and looks up at the ceiling. Ginny sees him half-smile to himself; she thinks he gets a kick out of trying to figure out Hermione's plans, like he used to when they were younger. "You must have gone with them to the Manor. What I don't understand is how you got them through the gate without Malfoy's help."

"Maybe Malfoy suddenly had a change of heart and decided to let everyone in for tea and crumpets, then walk out quietly with the lot of them. Aurors can do that to a person, you know."

"Don't be daft, Ginny. Nothing could keep Malfoy from throwing the Aurors out of his beloved home. He's probably got a million in one hexes and traps set up around the Manor that would send 'em to hell and back, he's so determined to not let anyone get near him or Harry. Everyone knows Malfoy's obsessed with him, there's no–"

Ron stops, realizing too late the extent of his ranting. Ginny and George raise their eyebrows.

Hermione is pale, her eyes are wide and her mouth slightly agog. To Ginny and George, she looks about just as shocked as they feel. They both look to Ron, whose ears are beet red, and with every passing second he sinks further and further into the couch. At the same time, George and Ginny grab their brother by the ears and hoist him up out of his sinking despair.

"What's this Ron?" Ginny acts innocent, trying to sound only slightly curious.

"Yes, tell us, mate; does that prick really have something shoved up his arse this time?" George casually drapes his arm across his brother's shoulders.

When Ron doesn't answer, Ginny puts on her best imitation of her mother's voice.

"Tell us what you know, Ron." He looks at her warily. "Or else." He flinches, acting as if she had spit in his face, and George's grip is tightening around him.

"W-well," he stutters, but to Ginny's dismay, Hermione steps in.

"Ronald Weasley, help me take my plate into the _kitchen_, will you?"

He looks torn – half happy to be saved, but sure wrath awaits him in the next room. Regardless, he gets up promptly, helping Hermione out of her seat and grabbing her plate before walking as fast as he can into the kitchen.

Ginny folds her arms crossly.

"Bugger, and here I really wanted to know how Hermione got the Aurors into Malfoy's place."

Ginny rolls her eyes at George. "Oh really? So I'm the only one who wanted Ron to finish his sentence."

Shrugging smugly, George nestles into the cushions on the couch. "No need. I already know what's up Malfoy's arse."

"What's that?"

George wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but before Ginny can laugh at him, they hear Hermione screaming from the kitchen.

"You know, although she's yelling, it's too bad we don't have any Extendable Ears to actually hear what they're saying."

Smirking, George turns to his sister. "Who says we don't have any?"


	18. Resipiscence: Part 9

The door doesn't even close before she's rounding on him.

"What do you know?" Her whisper is as sharp as the finger she's gabbing into Ron's chest, and he can't help but stumble backwards from the impact of it. Once he regains his balance, he shuffles his feet against the tile, not looking up at his wife as her hair seems to rise, her expression like a mad porcupine.

He always thought he'd enjoy the day where he knew something Hermione didn't. But he realizes with a pang that it will only hurt their relationship more; and it is already fragile enough.

Silence is their only companion in the small kitchen; it is thick, like his mother's porridge, and Ron's swimming in it. He can hear Hermione's heavy breathing, can imagine her fingers clenching and unclenching, each knuckle cracking slowly, counting down the seconds until she snaps.

Ron doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to answer his wife, almost too afraid of her reaction. After looking down at his hands, he does the only thing he knows how to do.

He turns to put the plate in the sink.

"YOU WILL FACE ME, RONALD, AND TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!"

Ron didn't anticipate snapping as quickly as Hermione, but hearing her words turns him. He feels his head begin to pound in anger, and he pulls his wand with half-crazed eyes and a hammering heart. He casts a _Muffliato_ on the room before shouting back at Hermione.

"Do you _want _Ginny and George to hear, Hermione?"

"Hear what, Ron? Is what you know harmful to them?"

"I don't know, Hermione. You've kept Harry's relationship with Malfoy secret for so long, you'd think it was harmful."

Hermione's nose flares, and her arms are locked against her side. "How do you know?"

Ron scoffs, rolling his eyes and gripping his wand until his fingers turn white. "This is not about how I know, alright? This is about Harry with Malfoy, _the _Draco Malfoy we've hated forever, and how youtwo _thought_ I didn't know. All these years, and you thought I was as ignorant of it as I am of _Blibbering Hum-do-whats_or whatever they're called. Why couldn't you _trust_ me with this?"

Her brow knits. "Well, it seems you've kept it secret as much as I have; I don't see why I would need to trust you with it, let alone trust you at all."

"Now don't start that – I only know because I over heard _you_ talking about it!"

Hermione remains silent, looking carefully at Ron, not letting herself speak to him.

Frustration rises in his throat like bile. "Hermione, I was his best friend – and I'm your best friend, too, in case you've forgotten. You can't just leave me out of things like this."

It's Hermione's turn to spin around, unable to face him. Her hands lie on the counter, her back heaving from her heavy breathing. Ron thinks he knows what she's thinking, because he's known her long enough know to know her thoughts; _You're right, you were his best friend, but now's not the time to play that card. There's no time to be wasted - we have to take care of Harry first._

Ron doesn't want to wait to talk about this; they can finish this now, while they have time. When this is all over, he knows Hermione won't want to talk about it any more than she does now, and by then she'll be even more tired and irritable.

Ron sets his jaw. He needs to get Hermione's attention, and he knows how. He just hopes Harry won't mind him telling her.

"Harry spoke to me the night before he left."

Hermione snorts, but her shoulders visibly tense at the same time. He's got her attention, but she cuts him off before he can say anything else.

"I'm sure he spoke to us all that night, Ron. He probably wanted to appear normal."

"Oh really, and what did he say to you, then? I'm sure it's burned in your memory like one of your Arithmancy problems. You probably recite it to yourself every night."

"You're making me sound as if I'm the one obsessed with Harry, when we both know it's really _you_."

Ron feels his face heat up, flooding from his ears and into his temples. He flexes his toes and his fingers, trying to release some of his anger and embarrassment.

"Don't make me look like the bad guy, Hermione. Your life fell apart just as much as mine did when he left."

Hermione turns around, her lips thin and eyes blazing. "Only because you fell apart, Ron. I was fine with Harry leaving, and I was happy to be married. If _you_ had been fine, things would have been easier."

"No, they wouldn't have; I can bet you would have strung yourself to Malfoy regardless of my situation. Things wouldn't have been fine then; we'd still be angry at each other, and Malfoy would still be the mess he's always been!"

"Don't–"

Ron raises his hand. "No, _you_ don't. You know you want to hear what I have to say, so let me say it."

"No, you can say it once _I'm_ done." Hermione's breath is erratic as it escapes her. "Do you want to know why I've chased Draco all these years, followed him, worked a job that keeps me close to him all the time? I don't do it out of enjoyment, Ronald – I do it because Harry asked me to." A nasty laugh rises out of her at Ron's surprised face. "Yes, he asked me to. The night he left, he told me to watch Draco. And ever since the moment I knew he was gone, _that_ is what I have been doing, despite my own desire for happiness."

Her eyes fill with tears and she scowls. "Draco is my friend now, but in the beginning it was hard to put up with his behavior and his hatred. If you had been a little more supportive, a little more stable and not ruined just because Harry left, it would have been easier for me to bear."

With her arms crossed, Hermione simply stands and watches Ron. He doesn't want all the blame forced on to him, but it drains him of all his anger to look at her and know that right now, he is the cause of much of her pain, her anger. He made her angry at school, and he makes her angry now. It's not his intention to hurt her. He sighs, and takes a small step toward her.

"I don't want to fight with you."

"Fighting is the last thing I ever want to do, Ron."

He tries to think of something to say, something comforting, something fitting, but he can't come up with the words. He's out of things to say for a second time this evening. Fortunately, Hermione saves him, her sentence spoken as softly as a mother sings a lullaby to her sleeping child.

"What is it Harry told you the night before he left, Ron?"

Ron shrugs. "Told me he trusts him. Took me several years to finally figure out what he meant."

Hermione only nods.

"You know, considering how cryptic he sounded at the time, we should have reckoned he was going to leave."

The corner of Hermione's lips lift slightly. "Oh, I knew. I just didn't know exactly when."

"You could have warned me," he grumbles, crossing his arms.

At this, she smiles fully and rests her hand on her husband's arm. There's a comfortable pause, a silence that rests lightly and warmly in his mind and in his heart, before he speaks again.

"I only left Harry with Malfoy because Harry told me he trusted him. Otherwise I would have brought him home with us."

At this, Hermione sighs and rubs her forehead. "I'm beginning to think that we shouldn't have let him go home with Draco. I feel like it's all my fault."

"What, that Malfoy's being an even bigger prick than usual? That's his own fault, Hermione, not yours."

She shakes her head. "We left him there too long, Ron. He's gone mad."

"He already was, Hermione."

Her eyes roll. "Not Harry, you dolt. Draco."

"I know."

Ron grabs Hermione's hand and pulls her with him toward the door, forbidding himself from seeing her sad smile. "Come on; we'll see if Ginny and George tried using an Extendable Ear on us, and after we've gotten rid of them, we'll go check up on Harry."


	19. Resipiscence: Part 10

They are asking me questions, questions I don't want to answer. All I feel is the leather seat beneath me and the loose fabric of my clothing around me. They were never this loose before, and I don't know how they got to be so. I can't look around, my eyes are stuck staring into space, one indefinite, unmoving point in space that I can't really see. Everything is hazy, as if I'm sitting in a cloud of steam that never rises, and if I stood, I still wouldn't find my way out of it; it follows me wherever I go. But I don't want to listen to the Ministry officials; I don't want to talk to the doctors. I don't want to continue sitting here, unseeing and cold.

"Did you keep him restrained after you dismissed the doctors from your home?"

"Did you teach him your name?"

"How did he learn to speak?"

I shake my head at their persistent questions. I wish I could kick them all out of the room and be left alone with you. But I don't know where you are. I don't know where I am.

I feel someone grab my arm, and although I have a habit of pulling away, I do not. I search, and slowly the fog clears, and I see Hermione sitting next to me, her lip swollen from being chewed on mercilessly. Her eyes are filled with worry, and as she says my name I tilt my head and stare.

I knew the second I threatened her she would get the ministry involved. It was only a matter of time. But my forgetfulness – we would have been safe in the Manor if I hadn't forgotten about that blasted elf. We could have been safe until you were healed, and then we could have escaped. Disappearing is what you're good at – we would have been gone if you had saned up quick enough; if I hadn't left that elf loyal to Hermione.

I begin to snarl. This is her fault. We wouldn't be here if she hadn't been so defensive, so caught up in protecting you. She is not my friend if she cannot leave me with you. I try to pull my arm from her, feeling the fabric she holds in her grasp stretch. An indignant look flares up in her eyes, and Hermione tugs back. I can hear my sleeve cry in pain, and I snarl again. But her voice is suddenly loud and commanding.

"We won't take him away, Draco."

My snarl dies and I sit still, feeling my face relax and become a blank sheet of parchment. My back remains rigid, but my eyes wander toward nothing in particular.

I hear water falling, splashing somewhere in the room. I listen to it, lulled by it, before I look up and ignore those that sit in this room in their tension and silence. My head does not move as I glance around to look for the water, but I do not see it anywhere.

I do notice Hermione giving the doctors and the Ministry men nervous looks. Weasley stands behind her, his arms folded and his face dark. The doctors are fidgety and the Ministry officials' faces are pinched. I shrug minutely, distracted. My thoughts are straying toward you. What are they doing to you right now? We need to escape these men, who think they are better, think they know better, who have never left you alone, even when you were no longer here; we will escape these liars. We will be safe.

I search for you, hoping desperately that you hid in a corner somewhere. Slowly, I begin to recognize the room. We're back here, are we? Back in this horrible white room. It seems pristine, touched by nothing, the only obvious color in the room the robes and hair of the people in it. I look around, and quickly spot the glass wall. The other side is white, too. I can't see anything or any one in it.

Where are you?

The world is suddenly spinning, a sinister warmth invading and curling around me. I feel sick and tired, and I wish you were here to lie down with me. But I can't lie down now. Not with all these people here.

I turn to focus back on Hermione as she cautiously lets go of my arm, her fear that I will die at any second apparent. "Draco, I'll let you see Harry–" and at this there are protests from the men in the room as I watch her. She holds up a hand to silence the others, and I see Weasley come up from behind and put a hand on her shoulder. She seems to sit straighter and her head rises, the old confidence coming back.

"Draco, I'll let you see Harry, so long as you promise not to faint."

My head is feeling impossibly light, my stomach impossibly heavy and vile. I can't comply to such a request; I don't remember not feeling like I would collapse when I am around you. When I first saw you, in this room, I felt like I would fall. At the Manor, I would always wake up barely able to recall that I was with you before everything seemed to stop and go black. Hermione fainted the one time she entered your room when we were alone.

"If you faint, you won't see him again."

I know Weasley is the one who spoke, but I cannot sacrifice the energy to glare at him. The room is filling with water, with the sounds of water falling continuously, endlessly. My mind is already swimming in it, although my body remains stiff and cold in this seat.

They can't do this to us; they can't keep me away from you. I don't care if my arms hurt and my legs are frail. A Malfoy's sense of survival is strong than that. No sudden needed surge of energy will fill me. But I will see you, and I will not fall.

I try with what might I have to block out the sounds in my ears, and I turn to look directly at Hermione. She looks back at me as if she knows what I'm thinking. She exhales, her breath shaking, her hands fiddling nervously in her lap. I nod as deftly as I can, and she mimics it, standing quickly. The rest follow suit, but I remain sitting, watching them all tower over me, suddenly making me feel even smaller, weaker than I had a moment again. My legs aren't ready for the momentum of standing yet, and I feel myself panic as my eyes dart to see if anyone noticed, my hands tremble and knees jerk. I try to hid it behind my blank face, and I look up at Weasley, who has moved to stand in front of me.

He motions for me to stand, but I am still struggling to block the sounds of water that threaten to burst in me. He knits his brow, and I look away. I will make myself stand, because I am determined to prove myself, to get us out of here. But before I realize what's happening, Weasley picks me up as Hermione steps out of the room, and he pushes me toward her. I would get angry at him for touching me, for humiliating me in front of all these people, but I can't waste my energy on him. Surely they already see my hurt pride, my lost dignity as it trails behind me, left in the shoeprints forgotten as I stagger away.

I bite the inside of my lower lip, and move as quickly as I can to follow Hermione. I need to focus on seeing you, no matter the cost. After today, I am determined to never let them see us again.

Outside the room, there is a narrow hallway. The lighting is dimmer, greyer than that in the room behind me, a stark contrast that leaves me blinking and trying to see in the dark. The walls are oppressive, seemingly leaning in toward me as I search for Hermione. As my eyes adjust, I see her to my right and only a few paces away. She stands at a door talking to a wizard. He might be an Auror, and after he nods to her he leaves and strides down the hall in the opposite direction. She turns toward me and with lead feet I begin walking toward her. I want to move faster, the anticipation of seeing you building up in my stomach, but I can't. I'm too tired, the walls of the hallway suffocating me as they press even closer. And Hermione knows it.

It seems like it's hours before I make it to her side, and when I'm finally there, she looks down at her feet before she can look at me. It looks like she's bracing herself for something, because her shoulders are tensing and her hands are clenched so tight they're white.

"Draco, don't let him speak. I think that's when it happens."

I can't speak to her. My voice won't allow me. And so I look at her, asking her what she wants me to ask.

"When he begins pulling energy."

I try to laugh, but it comes out as a croak. Hermione folds her arms and gives me a stern look. I don't look back at her, but at the door. I shouldn't see you, because I might fall; but I'm determined to prove that I won't. I'm growing agitated and my feet are shuffling. I'm scared witless, but I want to see you, and Hermione grabs my arm as soon as she sees me try to move to the door.

"We've sent Aurors in there, and as soon as he sees them and tells them to leave, they fall to the floor. We've put a range of living things in there with the Aurors, like plants and animals, and they all wither or drop dead. He's _pulling_, Draco, and it's dangerous."

The temptation to ask her why she's letting me see you is not strong enough to overcome my pull toward the door. I reach out impatiently to see if I can push it open, but Hermione grabs me again and I groan.

"Just because you haven't seen Harry for a week doesn't mean you're any stronger, Draco." She looks pleadingly at me, but I look away. "Please, be careful."

I hear her, but the door is opening and I'm already pushing through it, my stomach knotting more and more, tighter and tighter. Waterfalls are filling my head with raucous sounds and I'm moving as fast as I can, already feeling your fingers on my back, in my hair. But as soon as I'm in the room, there is only whiteness. I hear the door close behind me, and as I look to my side, I see a mirror on the wall. On the other side, I know they are watching me. I would try to straighten, try to look indifferent, but my stomach is falling through my legs and into my feet.

This can't be a trap. They can't keep me here, from you.

I am about to turn toward the mirror and yell, if I can, but I hear a door open on the opposite side of the room, and I stop. It looks like a dark, gapping whole in the white walls, and I stand there watching it. Then, from the darkness, you step into the room. You don't squint or react to the light, but simply stare at me as you advance.

I don't know how to breathe; I'm drowning. You're just standing there, with old glasses and old clothing, almost the spitting image of who you were before you left me. And you're just standing there. Watching me. I don't know what to do, because something is different. It's as if I'm in my O.W.L.s all over again, dumbfounded and confused – I'm being tested and I feel as ignorant as Crabbe or Goyle.

You take a step toward me, and I toward you, but I'm feeling my knees give, and Hermione's voice is ringing in my head.

_If you faint, you won't see him again._

I can't faint, you can't let me faint. Please, don't let me faint. I can't let them get in the way. They might keep us apart for another ten years, and I can't live much longer than that without you.

"Potter," I wonder if they can hear me, and I glance furtively at the mirror before focusing back on you. I open my mouth, but you cut me off.

"_Harry_." Your voice is rough, and I flinch. I can't help but stumble forward a little, despite my best effort to stand straight. My energy is seeping from me.

"_Potter_." I swallow hard before continuing. I cannot call you _Harry _now, not while they watch us; you always used to make me call you Potter. I wonder if it's because you never wanted me to become attached to you back at Hogwarts.

"I've been wondering when you'd show up, Potter." My feet and hands hurt, but I must act as normal as possible and not convey my weakness. You watch me closely, peering at me from behind your glasses. I shudder. "Do you know how long it's been? Ten years. Ten very long years. You left all of us hanging, all alone. I don't think you can understand what pain your selfishness has caused; Weasley's gone off the deep end, which only ever makes Hermione cry, and the Weaslette is destined to live out her life as an old maid.

"I, on the other hand, remain perfectly–" I gulp, and feel sweat break out on my forehead. Hermione's wrong; you pull even when you're not talking. You're just walking toward me and I can feel myself falling. I try desperately to keep myself upright. "Perfectly fine."

There is barely any space between us now, and I look at you in agony. I can't think about how little dignity I have; I need to focus on getting us out of here, getting _me _out of here. My fingers stretch and I want to touch you, but I refrain, and force my hands to stay at my sides. I have to get out of here if I want to see you again.

"_Draco_." I am caught off guard, my thoughts distracting me, and I gasp and grab your shirt, struggling to stand. Your hands grab me, and I can feel blood rush from my legs and head to where you hold my arms. I attempt to push you away and stumble backward, panting, my vision hazy again, my head exploding with sounds of showers and rainfall. I try to step back without falling down, but my legs shake.

I have to get out of here before I fall, otherwise I'll never see you again.

"I have to go." I move to turn, but you step forward, your brow furrowing as you begin to frown.

"_You can't,_" and you grab my arms again. I struggle to get away, your grasp on me is too tight. I want to tell you why I can't stay, explain to you, but my mind's going blank and I'm kicking you. You only pull me toward you and hold tighter, but I can feel myself convulsing, my hands and knees and feet flailing against you. I'm gulping huge amounts of air, but it's like swallowing razors and they're tearing a path down my throat into my lungs. My chest is against your chest, and my heart is trembling against your stagnate one. My world is crashing down in time with the shouts coming from behind me.

Now we, together, are drowning in an ocean of water that is falling, falling falling on us. And I am being battered by the waves, the sounds that will take me to my death as my limbs collapse and my heart falters. You alone hold me as my head dips back and I swallow the water, the room and the Aurors turning on their heads as I buckle and fall.

---

To my readers, specifically those I've sent replies to, let me add something to what I've already said.

I continued this story because friends asked me too. But I only finished it because I wanted to. I write for myself, and this story goes how I have wanted it to go, where my mind has taken it. Action and romance is meant for some authors, because they know how to write it well, can feel it. I haven't made a successful step in that direction yet. But I enjoy writing, and it is a part of me. I feel my writing.

Nonetheless, thank you for the lovely reviews, and again sorry to those who may be disappointed by the end. The last pov is longer than most of those before it, so I hope it is somewhat satisfactory.


	20. Resipiscence: End

I am alone, and in front of me there is a hall of tile, ever and forever ongoing, it seems. The tiles and the grout are white, and the only grey that lies in the room is the shadows cast by the jutting walls that separate the showers. I look up, but the tiles climb up and up as far as I can see. Ahead of me, behind me I search, but it is useless. There are only the tiles and stalls. If I listen, look closely, there is steam and noises that rise from those stalls, all the stalls, but they are soft and harsh like puffs of hot air that burn my skin. I have been in this hall before, and although my mind screams to get out, get away, my heart is still, my fingers calm, and I move forward.

I walk toward the nearest shower, the sound of drops falling echoing down the hall. There are no curtains for privacy, and although the water sounds and the steam rises, there is no water flooding out on the tiled floor. I move unhurriedly, my legs stretching leisurely in front of me as I take my time, curious and cautious, watching.

However, as soon as I am in view of the first shower, I stop and gape. In the stall, there are two benches facing each other, and a window on the wall that depicts a moving landscape. And there, there stands a small, pale boy in black robes, and on a bench sits another boy with dark hair and glasses. Their lips are moving but I cannot hear them, and I don't dare step closer. Something in me prevents me from intruding to listen, as if the scene is sacred, and by stepping into it I will taint it.

And so I stand, my shoulders sagging a little as I watch, as I begin to understand. A weariness creeps into my blood as I gaze, helplessly, and the words I now remember ring in my ears.

_You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there._

_I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks._

I watch as my younger self turns a light shade of pink and I shudder, suddenly feeling cold, my throat expanding and filling with the taste of bile at your blunt rejection. I turn and stride away, continuing down the hall and ignoring the stalls that line the wall on my left. That is, until some one tumbles out of one and into the hallway.

You're lying on the ground, your lip bloodied and face bruised, but you're quickly standing again and running into the stall you just fell out of. My feet are suddenly running, and I have to put my hands on the walls as I stop and look into the space you've gone into, my breathing labored from the small sprint. I watch as you wrestle someone to the ground, the _grass _where the tile should be, and in a flash of light hair, I realize that it is you and me again, our younger selves fighting in front of the Quidditch pitch. Our brooms lie somewhere off in a corner.

I back away from the scene slowly, and I feel my face falling. Not for the first time do I wonder where I am. I have an idea, a horrifying idea of what I'm trapped in, and as my heart finally reacts, finally begins to shake and thunder like it should, I panic and begin running back the way I came, glancing into the various showers. What should be my fast, loud footsteps against the tile are slow, languid sounds of water dripping into puddles and pools. I speed up, desperate to hear something, anything other than the water.

As I run, I see people and robes and scenes, scenes I know. They're all blurred as I dart down the hall, because I do not need to stop and watch; these scenes are mine, ones I've experienced and have ingrained in my memory. I pass us in a hallway with 'Potter Stinks' badges; there we stand in front of a hippogriff, and I am on the floor, screaming; in that stall we duel, when suddenly a snake erupts from your wand. The images are all swirling, streaking past me and I feel my head pounding, pulsing erratically, just as fast and frantic as my heart.

These, these are my memories, my life, and if I run far enough backward, backward into my past, I do not need to see my future, need not remember what I've lived though. It is a terrifying, pleading thought I have, wish I have, and I need to get away from this. If I go far enough, there will be an end, an end before I began, and maybe I can escape this.

I dash past the first memory I saw, of us on the train, and I speed up, my feet hurting as I push myself harder, further, faster. I stop a few stalls away, and I panic; my palms sweat and I blink as fast as my heart beats. It's not true; it can't be. I frantically shake my head and run again, look again, but I'm lost. I'm lost. I'm trapped.

I look into a stall that seems a mile away from the first one, from the one behind me of us on that train. But it is no use; I stand here, at what may have been my childhood, my infancy, and see a small, pale boy in dark robes, and you, you sitting on that bench, and the window of the moving landscape.

I am trapped in this hall of selective memories, and I do not know the way out.

Gravity pulls me down, onto my knees against the cold tile and I am screaming, crying out as fiercely as I can, my hands in my hair and I am pulling, then digging my nails into my scalp. My blood is throbbing in my head, my temples burning and my neck is swelling in anger.

There is no sound, but the drops falling gently into pools.

I try screaming again, pounding my fists against the tiles, but there are no sounds, just the water and the steam. I try clapping, yawning, yelling again and again, but there is nothing. Forlorn, drained, I lay my head on the floor, my sides flush against the cool tile. I rest there, my pulsing head slowing, my frantic heart dying, and I listen to the harsh whisper of steam that surrounds me. My throat is raw, and my cheeks sting, and beneath my fingernails there is blood.

I sigh, silently, my eyelids becoming heavy as I give in to my mind.

All these memories – they are so few, so selective. Was there no other point to my life? Every scene played has only been us, you and me, violent and loathsome. We were never alone, but there, but here, we are. Everyone else is omitted, but you, and I, remain.

What happened to my parents? My childhood? What of my games and my choices and my home. Was nothing else important?

I open my eyes and stare blearily at the scene in front of me, watch as the benches, the window, the train repeats over and over again. I watch your face, your green eyes, your broken glasses, and remember the feelings from my childhood as my younger self stands there, mortified, humiliated, and determined, vowing to prove his worth to you, even if it took him his entire life.

_My _entire life.

I blink, and sit up painfully, my body cold, hunched and sick. I was so sure, so certain my life amounted to more. Like family and friends.

But it hasn't, and my mind is suddenly convinced so, as if I knew it all along but ignored it. My family; my mother's death compelled me to help you, and my father murdered, only because you told me to. My friends; in school they helped me hurt you, and now my only friend was your friend. Everything I've had or known, is connected to you, revolves around you.

My life belongs to you.

Even when you were not there, I devoted my time, my knowledge, my everything, to finding you. These seventeen years, you have consumed me whole; my thoughts and my energy you feed off of. I am your greatest source of life, but there are no scraps left for me to pick at. Because you are selfish.

Because you need.

Eventually, I stand with the slow grace of a death march, a sad parade, my heart deathly quiet as I make my way forward. If this hall goes on forever, then I will walk forever, and watch and remember as I am torn to pieces, bit by agonizing bit. Watch and remember the worth of the life that only you could have taken.

And as I walk it is as if a switch is being flipped, and I feel my emotions, my will ebbing, slowly being stolen from me, bleeding from my mind, through my legs, and out my feet onto the tiled floor. I can feel them crawl from me, my body growing colder, my mind stumped and my heart stone. But I continue walking, for I know of nothing else to do. It may be weeks, or months, or only minutes to arrive at where I'm headed, I do not know the passage of time here.

So I continue until I finally spot it; our last, shared moment of reality, before it was all ruined.

The back of the shower I am stopped in front of is laced with trees, towering and imperious, and the tiles are covered with dark, thick grass. I sit on the tiled floor outside the stall, watching as leaves on the trees rustle and the grass bends to the wind I can on longer feel. After a while, you appear, and I gaze at your back as you retreat toward the trees. You're wearing those muggle clothes you always wore. And behind you, my teenage self follows, stalking quickly toward you in tattered robes.

_Come on, Potter. Now is not the time for a secret rendezvous in the Forbidden Forest; we're going to be late for dinner._

_I don't want to go into the Great Hall._

He sprints the rest of the way, grabs your shoulder and spins you around.

_They took the dead out weeks ago. You can at least try to eat a proper meal before we leave tomorrow._

You ignore him and continue walking to the forest.

_Potter._

You speed up.

_Potter!_

He runs toward you again and grabs fistfuls of your clothing, pulling you back. You stumble backward into the grass, and he drags you away, even as you kick and claw his wrists.

_Let me go, Malfoy!_

_There's no need for you to go back into that forest, Potter. No one's going to come back to life, no matter what you do or how hard you try._

He lets go of your clothes and your head falls into the grass. I know from memory that you are wiping your eyes now, but I cannot see it from where I sit now. As I watch us, my hands curl tightly around my ankles and I pull my knees against my chest. My younger self is looking at his nails, waiting, waiting for you to get up and leave. With him.

But you don't, and I watch as the memory plays, and as he ignores you, pretends he is impatient and tired, you discreetly pull your wand. And in my mind I can hear you whisper;

_Stupefy._

In a flash of red light my body is on the ground, and I, on the other side of the stall, watching, sigh. This – this was all you gave me. This is the last thing I can remember before you left, after all the pain you caused me, after all the nights you claimed me. This was all.

You didn't even say good-bye.

I begin to stand, my legs feeling worn and my arms stiff, when I notice from the corner of my eye that you are standing too. I pause, my heart lurching suddenly, my dying emotions startled momentarily back to life. My memory should stop here. I don't know anything past this. But you continue to move, hovering over the body on the ground, on all fours you are above him and watch. And you touch his hair, you touch his lips, and as you sigh your whole body crumples, barely suspended over him, as if you want to give in.

And your voice, cracked and broken, whispers desperately,

_I need you, Draco Malfoy. But I can't do this anymore; I can't hurt you, I don't want to hurt you. Please understand. Please._

And you choke as you stand and run into the forest, leaving him to wake up alone in the grass, wake up to the ugliest morning of his life. My life.

I turn from the scene; my breathing is labored again, my throat thick. I did not expect... _anything_, expected nothing from you, except to be needed. And so when you left me in that grass by the forest, I felt betrayed and angry, alone, forgotten, _unneeded. _

All these years, I've looked for you to find answers. To make you need me again.

But now I know you already did.

I kick at the tiled floor, frustrated by your selfishness, at the years wasted because of your self-pity, self-loathing. If you had stayed with us, with me in the wizarding world, things could have been so much more different. I would not have had to suffer through those years with Wilone, the years spent with the Ministry and the firm; Hermione would have had her child, and Weasley might not have become so rotten. If you had stayed, things could have been better.

But as I stand here, I think for a second, and I stop. There is no point wishing things different. This is what has happened. And as I take a step ahead of me, my anger begins to fade, my thoughts spiraling down and away as I make my way through the hall. It is as if by walking, a stupor of thought grows, and eventually everything I feel falls away.

And so I continue forward, because there is no point in going backwards; I already know what is there. But ahead? My memories will stop eventually. And there may be an end.

I don't know what I expect; maybe an exit sign or an open doorway.

But then I wonder; what is my last memory?

I walk, all determination and arrogance and will I've even know taken from me by these porcelain walls. Curiosity barely drives me forward, fractionally allows this forlorn mind and this failing heart to function. My feet move mechanically, systematically, a steady march, and my hands stay limp by my sides, stiff from disuse.

I am not certain how I will know which memory is my last. I guess if I keep walking, and pass it, it will repeat itself like the memory of the train had. And so I continue to make my way forward, pausing every now and again to look into a stall and see if the memory changed. When I realize that it has, I shrug and continue on, uninterested.

It isn't long before I notice the light dimming. Or at least, I think it hasn't been long, and I am sure the light is dimmer than it had been. The shadows cast from the stalls are growing, increasingly darker, more menacing than they were before. And it's suddenly like walking into Knockturn Alley, the grout black and molding, the tiles shattered, chipped, broken, the walls leaning down in on me, breathing heavy, putrid breaths that are filling my lungs and clog my throat. I cough, my hands coming up to cover my mouth, my throat irritated and inflamed, and I succumb to the fit that takes over.

When the irritation finally passes, I look up at the stalls, and for the first time notice the stark, white light that is spilling out from one of the showers in front of me. I make my way toward it with sloth like steps, my body frail and weathered.

As I move to look into the shower, the simple knowledge that this was my last moment, our last moment together, is clear. I do not know why, and I do not know how. Maybe it is in the way my back arches, my head dipping back and my hands clutching your shirt as if my life depended on it. Or maybe it is the way your arms flex as you grip me, your eyes bright behind your glasses and unwavering.

And in my mind, I hear us whisper.

_I have to go._

_You can't._

And I hear the irregular heartbeats of my body in your arms, the frantic plea in my throat that begs you to let go, begs for you to keep me alive, and hear the spraying, the steam that hisses in my head as I buckle, as I fall.

And then the hall is black, the light gone. My heart does not lurch, my mind does not scream. It is as if I do not know how to panic, and I no longer fear anything. There is no need for me to spin around and look for something, no desire for curiosity or need. There is nothing here.

The lure to simply stop, stop thinking, stop anything in this dark is strong. But before my mind fails and sputters out like my heart, there is a noise that murmurs, that stops the water and the hissing steam.

"_Draco_."

And I turn, to whatever direction the sound is coming from, barely registering that that is my name, that from somewhere, someone can speak, someone is speaking. I haven't been able to make a single sound the whole time I've been trapped here, but someone else can, and it has captivated me. And so I move toward the whispers, the low lulling that comes to me from across the darkness.

"_I know you're angry, Draco, and maybe there is no way I can make you understand why I had to leave_."

In the distance, I can see a faint glimmer, faint glow, and I approach it.

"_But I'll try._"

I can barely make out the shape of a table, and someone sits next to it.

A deep breath echoes across the silence.

"_There was something dark in me_–" another breath " –_something poisoning me. I could feel it, Draco, but I didn't know how it got there, and I didn't know how to get rid of it_."

I'm closer now, and I see a hand rake through the hair of the figure next to the table. The light around the scene is growing, and I am close to stepping into it.

"_I could feel it every time I tried to make a decision, like it was trying to make them for me, but not in a good way. Like the time_–" And there is a pause, and I see now the glasses that are perched on the person's nose, and the lumps covered in sheets that lie on the table next to him.

"_Like the time I told you to kill your father._" A breath. "_I could feel my world turn red when I laughed at you, when you ran away from his body._"

I stop walking, and suddenly I see, I know who sits there. _You_, you sit there beside a table, _talking_. And I am confused, because this, for sure, is no memory. I have no recollection of this; I don't even see where I am.

I hear you choke before you continue. "_I'm sorry it took me so long. I didn't want to be away this long. I just – I didn't want to hurt you. I couldn't stay and let myself destroy you while I let the guilt destroy me._"

I watch as your hand reaches out. I begin walking again, approaching the table to peer at it. And as your hand reaches under the sheets, you pull out – a hand. Someone else's hand, and I realize that the table isa _bed_, and that someone lies there.

There is no caution or care as I step closer to the bed, watching a pale face emerge as you pull the sheets away. And with an indifferent glance, I realize that it is me on the bed, grey and immobile.

And now I stand, watching you from across the bed, as you touch the hair of the body on the table. Your eyes are not bright, but they are not the same dull they were when I first saw you after our ten year separation. Your face is creased and scarred, your hands rough. But your hair is the same as ever, unruly, unkempt.

But when you look at me, your face is unguarded, so full of _need_.

You take a deep breath. "_It's ironic, how your energy is what saved me; I wasted all those years running when I might have been fine if I had just stayed with you._" You laugh, sour and defeated.

And I feel sadness as if I've never felt it before, the feeling suddenly striking me, weighing down my bones and plucking at my silent heartstrings. It's like you are force feeding me your grief as you sit there and speak, watch me with your helpless expression. And the feeling intensifies with every second you touch my hand, the warmth of your fingers against the palm on the table flooding me with a cold pang of sadness.

But then, someone else walks in.

"_Harry! What are you doing here? You know the doctors have told you to stay away from Draco._"

Heels click as Hermione strides over, her hands on her hips and her hair looking frazzled.

You look up, indignant and irritated.

"_I haven't seen him in nine months – I'm _fine_ now, even you've said so – it was just my guilt. That's all. I've done everything you wanted, I can control my magic again; I'm _fine_. Can't I be allowed to see him now?_"

Hermione huffs, "_Harry, there's nothing–_"

"_I just want one moment with him, Hermione! That's all I ask!"_

You turn back to the body on the table, ignoring Hermione as best you can. I watch as you begin stroking the pale hair again, and Hermione's stony face falls as she watches you too, slowly turning to walk away.

I stand and watch you, the knowledge that nearly a year has passed ignored. I can't comprehend it, don't want to comprehend it, and so I watch you as you slowly trace the features of the face in front of us.

"_Draco, I need you._" You gulp and blink. "_I'll find a way to bring you back. I promise."_

You put your forehead down on the bed next to the body, and against the sheets your hair looks like an ink blot on parchment. Your back moves up and down minutely with every slow breath. I move my attention to the grey face on the table, bending over to peer at it. Slowly, I use one of my fingers to poke it. Although my finger touches the cheek, I don't feel anything – in my finger or my cheek. I shake my head and move closer, trying to pull some of the hair. It is odd to watch as I tug the hair in front of me, but not actually feel it in my hands, or feel my scalp being pulled.

I step back, my brow knitting. When you touched my hand, I felt it. But I cannot feel anything else.

I hear you gasp, and my head snaps to look at you. And I stop breathing. Your head is no longer on the table, but is up, your eyes wide and bright, and I realize you are staring at _me_; not the bed, not the body, but whatever I am that stands here. I step backwards, the sudden urge to be lost in the dark a much more reasonable thought than staying here. But you stand and your hand is reaching out, trying to touch me.

"_Draco?_"

I take another step backward and am about to turn, but you are instantly around the table and in front of me. The corners of your lips are twitching up, and your eyes hold mine in their gaze. From the corner of my eye I see your hand move toward mine, and suddenly I feel a warmth spread up my arm as your fingers graze mine. And I blink.

You watch me, eyes intense, but I do not react when you remove your fingers. You step closer, green eyes dazzling, bright and brilliant like every time you came out of your mental stupor, as if your previous insanity allows you to see through and to me. And your eyes are searching mine.

"_Draco_," At this, you raise your hand up into my view, cautiously extending it toward me.

And you touch my chest, your fingertips sliding over my heart, and it is beating again, bumping painfully against my ribs as my mind floods with sounds. Layers and layers of sounds, some distant, some close. I hear my mother's voice somewhere distant, pleading, telling me to save you. I hear the horrific rush of you falling to the ground, off your broom, off the bed, and my bleating pulse as I race to you and hold you, hush you until the dreams and the shrieking stop. I hear our screams, our needy, helpless screams as we searched for each other, grasped each other amid the destruction and war that crashed, collapsed down around us so many years ago. And _need_, the word curling in my blood as it moves again, feeling the pull toward you as if strings were attached to my chest.

"_I need you_."

And I nod, because yes, you need me. And I have given my entire life to you.

-fin-

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A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed, all your comments are appreciated and will be remembered.


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